


The Great Bakerstreet Bake Off

by Elphen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Touching, Baking, Banter, Bickering, Blow Jobs, Caring Sherlock, Characters being oblivious, Dense John, Doubt, Fluff, Great British Bake Off - Freeform, M/M, Scheming Sherlock, Sweet John, Sweet Sherlock, Yearning, bakewell tart, citrus meringue pie, confusing signals, iced biscuits, inappropriate use of whipped cream, jaffa cakes, mini mousse cakes, showstoppers, spoilers for the final of TGBBO'16, wedding cake?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:32:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8719174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: John has decided to watch The Great British Bake Off this year and he is determined to do so. As Sherlock joins him, he is certain that that plan is ruined. He's in for a surprise when he's allowed to watch it but the real shock comes when Sherlock decides they ought to bake themselves. What's more, they should bake what they make in the Bake Off.John's not so sure it's a good idea but when his insides flutter at the thought, he finds it hard to complain.





	1. Jaffa Cakes for Cake Week

**Author's Note:**

> Happy December, everyone! Have a bit of a present :)  
> I saw that atikiology on tumblr wanted to see John and Sherlock watching TGBBO and then baking together and that was so sweet and lovely that I couldn't help trying to write what she wanted. I hope that I've succeeded just a bit. :)  
> I'm referencing real recipes that I find for this, since part of the wish was to be able to bake along with the fic, but I will only take responsibility for the ones I have tried myself.  
> For the first one, I've referenced this:  
> http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/mary_berrys_jaffa_cakes_58695

_“Welcome to the Great British Bake-off.”_

John smiled to himself as he settled into his seat for the evening with a freshly brewed mug of tea and an assortment of whatever they had in the cupboards that hadn’t been spoiled by age or a ‘vital’ experiment. This was just what he needed after a gruelling, yet tedious day of work and for once he’d be able to watch from the first episode of the series.

He barely got any further than his first sip of tea and the cold open of the show, though, before the front door opened and the force of nature that was his flatmate burst in.

John wasn’t going to be deterred from his intended activity for the evening, though. He took another sip and kept his focus on the screen, completely ignoring Sherlock.

It was only a bit less than ten minutes later, well into the signature challenge of drizzle cake, that his attention was somewhat diverted again by the dip of the sofa cushions beside him.

“No breakthrough in the case yet, then?” he asked, his focus still on the TV. He vaguely registered that at least Sherlock had bothered to take off his coat and shoes before dumping down. He had also registered the warmth of the body beside him and tried not to be affected by it. He was failing quite badly.

“Finished it hours ago, quite pedestrian, really” came the answer, that special intonation in his voice that asked John to inquire further.

“Ah,” was all John said in reply, his attention returning wholeheartedly to the show.

He was quick enough to react when Sherlock reached for the remote, intercepting the hand on its way.

“Oh, no, you don’t. I’m watching that.”

“It’s a baking show, John.”

“Simply marvellous deduction there, Sherlock. Now shut up and leave the remote alone. Go do some experiments in the kitchen or something and let me watch it in peace. I _like_ this show, okay?”

If he expected Sherlock to leave in a huff or deduce something or other to shreds, he was to be surprised. The brunette did indeed huff, but instead of leaving, he slumped further down into the sofa, pulling his legs up and generally looking as though he was going to stay for the duration.

Mentally shrugging, John went back to watching what was unfolding onscreen. _Ah, first technical challenge. This should be good._

As the bakers tried their hands at, off all things, homemade _Jaffa cakes_ , John could feel the man beside him shifting and wriggling, as though he was just on the verge of saying something but then decided not to.

About halfway through the technical, the doctor had just about had his fill. “Out with it.”

“Hm.”

“You’ve obviously got something you want to say, so out with it. It’s like sitting next to a kid who has to pee but won’t admit it.”

“You said I should shut up.”

 And when do you ever listen to me? Come on.”

The words finally came spilling out of the detective. “They’re idiots! They’re doing it all wrong! Look at the thickness of the sponges, it ought to be obvious which way they’re supposed to be! How can they claim they’ve sifted through that many bakers beforehand when they’ve obviously let the incompetent ones go through anyway!”

“Jaffa cakes aren’t the easiest of bakes, Sherlock.”

“They’re sold by the packet in supermarkets.”

“So is Battenberg, Black Forest cake and pastries. That doesn’t mean baking quality wares from scratch is easy.” John waved a hand in the direction of the TV. “There’s sponge and jelly that they’re making themselves and tempered chocolate – and this is just the first week.”

“It’s all just chemistry.” Sherlock sounded both petulant, dismissive and enthusiastic, which was a rather odd combination. “How hard can it be?”

John smiled, a slow, impish sort of smile that Sherlock ought to have recognized. Then it changed to an innocent expression with raised eyebrows as he took a last sip. “Bet you couldn’t do any of the bakes they do in there.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, pale eyes boring into the side of John’s face, scrutinizing him. Then he sniffed loudly and burrowed deeper into the back cushions. When John glanced over, he was a little bit surprised to learn that despite the bustle, the brunette was still watching the program, perhaps even more avidly than before.

_Huh. Well, if that is what it takes to let me watch the show in peace, then that’s good. Especially with the bonus of having him sitting that close._

 

* * *

Three days later, a Saturday, John had mostly put the show out of his mind and he had most certainly forgotten that he’d proposed a bet of some sort, possibly because he hadn’t been explicitly taken up on it.

He ought to have known his flatmate better than that.

Sherlock had been out most of the morning, which had been a bit out of the ordinary, but not enough to arouse suspicion from John, who had spent the morning puttering about, taking stock and generally relaxing after what had proved a tiring week; on Thursday, another case had come in and hadn’t wrapped up until the small hours of that morning.

John had chosen to go to bed, leaving Sherlock to his post-case comedown. Truth be told, he had expected to find him still on the sofa, back to everything, when he had come down later.

When he had found no Sherlock, he had just shrugged. The man would be back.

He almost burst through the door when he did get back but then went straight towards the kitchen.

“John!” he shouted over his shoulder. Then, when he got no reply, he repeated it.

“Alright, alright, hold your damn horses. I’m here, okay, I’m here. Now what’s the big emergency?”

In response, two laden Sainsbury’s bags were put onto the already quite loaded down table with an air of decision and finality.

“Yes?” John queried. “I see you’ve done the shopping – oh, god, don’t tell me you’re doing some appalling experiment involving all the odd ingredients you could possibly find in Sainsbury’s and most of what gets used for making us food? You, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing in there to make an even remotely interesting experiment.”

“Then why are you practically showing off your shopping bags? Do you want me to congratulate you on doing a chore that ought to be natural for an adult?”

The barest trace of colour high on those cheekbones might just as well have been a trick of the light.

“It’s all edible. It’s for Jaffa cakes.”

“Jaffa cakes?”

“We’re going to make them.”

“We’re going to – Sherlock, have you gone completely off your rocker? Did you inhale something in that factory?”

“Inhaling something that would make me want to bake? Please, John, that’s just…” the brunette trailed off, then brightened up. “In fact, that could be – “

“No. No, no, no, no, _no_. You are not experimenting on the effects of more different fumes in this kitchen ever again and that is final. No argument, no.” John folded his arms across his chest. “Now what’s all this about Jaffa cakes?”

Sherlock looked a bit hurt but trying to hide it in affront. “You bet me that I couldn’t bake. There’s nothing else on today, so…” he made a sweep of the arm to indicate the bags, as though that would explain everything.

Something sparked in John’s memory. He _had_ said something to that effect, hadn’t he? And then Sherlock had…oh, God…

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. “And so you thought that you would take the technically difficult challenge that most of the contestants – the contestants chosen from thousands of amateur baker applicants, mind – had difficulties with.”

“It’s just following a recipe – “

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘how hard can it be?’ or variants thereof, so help me –!”

Sherlock blinked and now looked quite distinctly hurt, at least for the briefest of moments. As the expression started to change into distancing aloofness, John quickly made his decision. “Alright, I get it. I’m sorry for lashing out. We’ll bake the cakes. God help me, I don’t know how, but we’ll make them.”

When the expression changed into one of the detective’s few genuine smiles, John found his insides fluttering and his reticence dwindling, just a little.

“Excellent! Well, then, shall we get started?”

If John was honest with himself, he could admit that he rather liked the thought of spending an afternoon together with Sherlock in this manner.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock, stop! _Stop!_ ”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are – you were going to melt the chocolate.”

“We are _supposed_ to melt the chocolate,” Sherlock countered in a strangely reasonable tone of voice.

“Not in the microwave in an ordinary bowl, we’re not, and not before we’ve actually made the bloody sponge and we’re not even close to through with that yet. It’s going to go all manky if you heat it up that much in advance.”

John realized he was about to wave the electric hand whisk at his flatmate while there was still the egg and sugar mix on it, which would have sent specks flying everywhere, creating even more of a mess.

“Anyway,” he continued as he returned to whisking, his tongue poking out just a little in concentration. He heard Sherlock swallow but didn’t think anything of it. “You’re supposed to be making the jelly, not muck about with the chocolate.”

“I have. It won’t set.” Sherlock moved past the other man to get to the computer on the other side, accidentally brushing against him in the narrow spaces between the kitchen units and the table, made narrower still by John standing in the space. The blonde felt the brush and had to suppress a small shiver.

“What does the recipe say?” John asked over the noise of the machine.

“I’m just checking – ah. It’s supposed to go in the freezer.”

“No, stop. Don’t reach over. Go around again.”

“I can reach it just fine from here.”

“I know you can. I just don’t – oh, fine. I think I’m done here, anyway.” To underline his point, he turned off the whisk.

“It says it’s got to be pale and fluffy,” Sherlock commented, peering into the bowl as he brought the tray with the jelly over. “I’m not sure that’s pale enough.”

“It’s about as pale as it’s going to get. I can’t hear any sugar crunching and I think I remember something about it being right when the sugar crystals were out. It’s fluffy, at the very least.” He tapped the whisk against the side of the bowl, to make any excess drip off. “Right then, what’s next?”

“Flour.”

“Right, give that here.”

Sherlock didn’t. instead he poured the flour directly into the bowl.

“Oi, hang on. Did you measure that?”

“It’s fine. You’re supposed to fold it in.”

“I bloody hope so. Did you put the jelly in?”

“Yes. It was a bit of a squeeze, though.”

 “Oh, god, I’d forgotten about the fingers.” John looked skywards for a moment before he turned around to look for a spoon. “They’re not in the jelly, are they?”

“No, the tray’s resting on them.”

They looked at each other. After a moment, John started to giggle and Sherlock joined in with a chuckle. “Only in this household will you get Jaffa cakes spiced with fingers.”

“People are always trying out new flavours,” the detective countered. He reached for the spoon to fold in the flour at around the same time John did and their hands met on the spoon.

Their eyes met again, a charge in the air that hadn’t been there before.

“Sorry!” John said, coming back to himself, jerking his hand back as he tried not to dwell on how surprisingly and pleasantly warm that hand had felt. Unfortunately, his hand was beneath Sherlock’s, so when he pulled, it jerked the spoon and sent loose flour into the air.

It went into both their faces, but John was the one who sneezed, then sneezed again. And again.

By the time his eyes cleared, Sherlock was folding the flour into the eggs and sugar, frowning in concentration. He had wiped his face with his sleeve, but a bit of flour was stuck in his eyebrows and his hair.

He was folding it more forcefully than he probably ought to, but they needed it to be folded in before the mix lost its fluffiness altogether, so John let it pass. Instead he looked for the tin.

“Where’s the bun tin?”

“Bun tin?”

“Yeah, the one we borrowed from Mrs. Hudson. The one with all the small holes in it.”

Sherlock, still busy folding, inclined his head in the direction of the worktop. John grabbed it and put it on the table.

“Right. How much goes into these again?”

“The contestants filled them up to about three quarters.”

He couldn’t remember whether they had or not, but John took his flatmate’s word. They both watched as Sherlock started to fill in each hole with sponge batter, being rather meticulous with his measures, as one would expect from one with a background in chemistry.

They ran out of room in the tin before they ran out of batter, though.

“I think you might have put too much flour in there. It’s supposed to fit for twelve.”

“We’re not putting the rest of the batter in there.”

“It’s a waste of batter, we don’t have any more tins.”

“They have to have room to rise, John.”

“And you’ve probably knocked the rise out of them with all that flour.” He stopped, aware that his voice had risen. “Alright, fine. It’s not that much more in any case. Put the bowl into the sink for me, yeah?”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Really? You amaze me sometimes. In they go, there. Right, then we just wait…what? Seven minutes?”

“Until well risen and the top of the sponges spring back when lightly pressed, however long that takes.”

“Okay, then.”

They looked at each other again and smiled. John felt that fluttering inside once again, which surprised him. Yes, he was attracted to Sherlock, but the fluttering was new. Not unpleasant, not at all, but new.

 

* * *

 

 

“Crap.”

“Eloquent.”

“Shut up, Sherlock. They’re not coming out of the tin.” He prodded at one again, trying to get something underneath enough to lever it out of the tin. It succeeded, at least partly.

“Yes, I can see that. Did you grease the tin?”

“Obviously not enough. Come on, come on. Yes!”

“That’s one. Just another eleven to go. Hopefully they’ll be whole.”

“Right, then, clever clogs, you do it. I’ll get the ban marie going.” In fact, he had gotten the water heated while they had waited for the sponges to cool down.

“Why don’t you just melt it in the microwave?”

“Because I don’t want it to overheat and burn, Sherlock, and I don’t think you do, either.”

“Fine.”

So, while the brunette went at levering the sponges out of the tin, the blonde broke the chocolate into one of the metal bowls Sherlock normally used to deposit things he extracted from lumps of flesh, trying hard not to think about what it might do to the flavour. They were meticulously cleaned after use, mostly to avoid cross contamination. They should be perfectly fine.

The chocolate melted well enough, which was nice.

What wasn’t as nice was the jelly. It certainly didn’t look as though it had set completely in the time it had been in the freezer. As the chocolate had already started to melt, however, they couldn’t really wait for it to hopefully set. Not unless they wanted to risk ruining the chocolate, at least.

They cut it and placed the discs of jelly on the sponges, hoping desperately that it would at least stay. It did, but it wobbled precariously at every little movement around it.

“The recipe says to spoon the chocolate on.”

“No, that’s no good, the jelly will slide right off if we move the cakes.” John blew out a breath as he thought. “Do we have a piping bag? I think I remember one of them piping the chocolate on, that seemed to work well.”

“What would we use a piping bag for?”

“You tell me. It’s not me that buys several different brushes to see the carbon density.”

The detective huffed. To the surprise of the doctor, however, he then turned and dug into a drawer. What he pulled out was a sheet of baking paper which he then rolled up into a cone and snipped the end off with a knife.

At the look of incredulity, he merely said, “I saw someone do this on a show once.” He then went over to start spooning the chocolate into the cone.

John shook his head, smiling. “You remember something utterly trivial like that but not the workings of the solar system. _How?_ ”

“This might prove useful and now it has. The way things go around each other will never be useful.”

That was…oddly sweet, in its way.

For a few moments, John just stood watching his friend pipe the chocolate onto the cakes.

“Ehm, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I think the jelly’s slipping off that one.” He pointed to the one furthest away.

Sherlock made a noise in response and started to work faster. The chocolate was cooling in the bag, though, and he was having a hard time controlling it. Still he pressed on, though, with the determination John normally only saw in him when he was on a case. His insides fluttered again.

“That’s it, stop.”

The detective kept going. “They still need the pattern.”

Bugger the pattern. It’s not like we’re going to sell them. You, on the other hand, are starting to sway on your feet.”

“I’m fine, John.” He was swaying just slightly, though.

“Yes, yes, yes. Humour an old man here, go get a nap. Or rest or retreat into your Mind Palace. Whatever. Just have a lie-down and I’ll clean up this mess.”

Sherlock mumbled something, sounding cross.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

“I said, you’re not old.”

Of all the things in that sentence to grab onto…John smiled broadly. “Thank you. That’s a compliment, coming from you, I know. Off you go.”

Once Sherlock was on his way back into the living room, the blonde turned to access the damage they had managed to cause.

_Well, I suppose compared to some of Sherlock’s more elaborate experiments, this is relatively easy to clean._

 

* * *

 

 

“These are horrendous.”

“I’m sure they’re not as bad as all that. They don’t look that bad.” John took a bite out of one of what admittedly wasn’t the prettiest looking Jaffa cakes and then made a face. “Ack.”

“I told you.”

 “God, they’re downright rubbery in their consistency, aren’t they? And what the hell happened to the jelly? Yuck.”

“Maybe the fingers ought to have been taken out or bagged before the tray was put in the freezer.”

John leaned back in his chair, contemplating their baking disaster. “Good thing we didn’t make any more than that, then.”

They were silent for a while. Then a small smile of amusement crossed the face of the doctor. “I guess this means I’ve won the bet, though.”

Sherlock smiled in turn, one a bit too sunny. “Hardly. You can’t call an experiment a success or failure based on a single trial. Even the contestants in the show are given three tries to impress the judges and avoid the elimination.”

_For one who expressed such disdain initially, you sure have picked up on a lot of stuff. “_ I am not making Jaffa cakes again.”

“Empirical data, John.”

“No. No more Jaffa cakes.”

“Fine. We’ll see what they are going to make next time and make that.”

“Fine.”

John was sure he was making a very bad decision saying yes. But the fluttering in his stomach was back and he had had fun making the cakes, even if the result was rather inedible.

 Besides, he knew that the next week would be, as it had been for the past few series, biscuit week, so he should be on safer ground, if he could make sure Sherlock didn’t choose the technical challenge again.

After all, how hard could baking some biscuits possibly be?


	2. Biscuit Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is rather surprised by the interest Sherlock shows in the program but when he finds out what's on for biscuit week, he is sure he is in for a very difficult time. Sherlock may surprise him yet, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this a week ago on tumblr, so I thought it only fair that I remembered to upload it here.  
> Some may have noticed that I have upped the rating a bit on the story. That is simply because I hadn't taken my plans for this into account. ;) :3  
> Oh, the recipe for today - http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/easter_biscuits_37686 Haven't tried this one either.

Wednesday, and therefore The Great British Bake Off, rolled around far more quickly than John had anticipated. He had planned to have at least a few ideas of what they could make for their own bake, just to have a reasonable counterpoint or two to Sherlock’s inevitable overly ambitious project. It would still only be their second bake together and it would be nice to have a least the glimmer of hope to make something that was in fact edible.

Time just seemed to have slipped away from him, though, and so he found himself on Wednesday morning still completely without a clue as to what they might feasible bake without it turning into a complete disaster.

He told himself that it wouldn’t matter. That he’d come home from the surgery, late, hopefully with some sort of food in a bag with him, would turn on the telly and then would either watch the show in its entirety on his own or he would be interrupted during it by his flatmate doing something utterly daft and dangerous. Again.

“Sometimes, one of those TV box recorders would be very nice,” he mumbled to himself as he scribbled on some paperwork. “Even an old tape recorder would be something.”

As he dragged himself home, a ready meal of shepherd’s pie swinging by his side in a plastic bag, he contemplated the idea that Sherlock would want to continue their baking, never mind sit and watch the show with him again. It was, quite frankly, absurd.

He couldn’t say why Sherlock had decided to sit down with him to begin with that evening, that was a fair point, but he had an idea that the reason they’d baked was for Sherlock to prove a point, that he could do anything he set his mind to. Even if he had failed to prove it. John had simply been dragged along to minimize the hassle a bit.

Mentally prepared for a silent flat and a quiet evening, the doctor came in, took off his jacket and toed off his shoes before he went straight to the kitchen to heat up his pie, sending a silent prayer up that it would be possible for him to heat it without it becoming an unintended kidney pie.

“Ah, John, _there_ you are, finally. Good. I was beginning to worry that you wouldn’t make it in time.”

A frown of incomprehension marring his brow, John turned his head slowly to look at his flatmate, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. “What?”

“You’re running quite late. But then when you insist on doing your shopping at the supermarket with the most conventionally attractive, yet dimmest girls the manager can find, what can you expect, really?” Sherlock grabbed onto the blonde’s upper arm and tugged. “Come on, then.”

“Sherlock, whatever this is that is so suddenly important, it can ruddy wait until I’ve heated my shepherd’s pie.” John resisted the tugging as best he could. _If I ever have children, I’ll be a right master in handling begging brats._

“No, it can’t.”

“Yes, it can. What’s so important? Normally when you want me, you just holler until I come running, so I have time to finish at least some of my dinner before you’re screaming the house down. What’s wrong with that tactic?”

“It’s starting.” Sherlock tugged again, much harder, and John, unprepared, stumbled forward just a bit. It was all the opening the detective needed; while John was still trying to regain his balance, Sherlock tugged again and managed to get them the few steps into the living room.

“What is star – “John began to ask but stopped when he saw their coffee table.

It was not clean, far from it, or even cleared entirely cleared of belongings. But instead of the usual heap, room had been made for two mugs, a full kettle of tea, judging by the steam, and a large plate stacked with an assortment of small food items that were easily snackable.

They were probably bought from the very nearby Marks & Sparks, as they did do some good selections, but even so, it was quite the unexpected sight.

John was pushed insistently in the direction of the sofa and he sat down on it hard, Sherlock sitting down right after, remote in hand. He pressed the button and the TV turned on just in time to catch the end of the intro of the show.

The doctor completely missed the brief the contestants were given for the signature challenge; he was much too busy looking at his flatmate in complete astonishment.

Sherlock had planned this. He had thought enough about the evening to not only remember when the show was on and on what channel, but had also prepared something for John to easily eat while they watched.

The blonde’s eyes narrowed. “What did you put in the food?”

Sherlock didn’t look at him. “Why would I put anything in the food? The whole point of ready meals is for the buyer to do as little as possible, as far as I’m aware.”

_As if you haven’t eaten more than your share of ready meals, you twit._ “Oh, I don’t know, really. Maybe it’s just me being silly or maybe it’s because you’ve actually been _thoughtful_ and bought something for us to eat while we’re watching a _baking show_.”

“Simple expedience. You won’t have to get up while it’s on unless your estimation of your bladder capacity is more off than usual. Now be _quiet_ , John, you’re talking over them.”

“Right. Okay. Fine.” John reached for a mini scotch egg, changed his mind and went for a small pork pie instead.

It was only when he settled back against the cushion that he noticed just how close Sherlock was sitting. It even went beyond his normal lack of care for conventions; a tiny shift on John’s part and they would be touching.

Firmly ignoring that for the time being, John refocused in time to see some ideas for iced biscuits that he really wouldn’t mind trying and a few that made him wince just at the thought of what they might taste of.

In the back of his mind he was a slight bit worried that the bake Sherlock decided they should make would be the most technically difficult ones. Not just from the different batches they were seeing there; they still had both the technical challenge and the showstopper to go. Both could provide ample overly ambitious ideas.

Foolishly, John had thought that after the ordeal that had been baking Jaffa cakes, biscuits would be a piece of cake, no pun intended. As he continued to watch and saw Paul Hollywood eviscerate one amateur baker after the other in the signature challenge, he felt a small sense of dread creeping up on him. This was going to wrong again.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, his fear was not assuaged by the unmistakable look of concentration on Sherlock’s face.

“Sherlock, what are you thinking?”

The brunette didn’t answer beyond a small noise, his eyes taking in as much detail as possible as the show went on to the technical challenge of Viennese Whirls.

“I’m telling you right now, we’re not making anything involving jelly, marmalade or jam,” John said, just to get his view on the matter out there.

“…or Jerusalem…”

“Sorry?”

There was no reply. John shrugged slightly and helped himself to another slice of quiche, munching on it with relish. Then, with a small bit of trepidation, he took a chance and closed the remaining, infinitesimal space between them. As they touched, he half expected the detective to shift away from being touched.

Instead there was another small noise, this time sounding very contended, and a press in return. Otherwise he did not acknowledge what had happened, however.

By the time the showstopper was ready to be judged, John had more or less resigned himself to his fate. They would be making some sort of elaborate gingerbread 3D monstrosity. His only hope now was that he’d be spared constructing something anatomical or related to the Work. He really could do without making an exploded heart out of gingerbread or recreating a detailed crime scene.

Of course, Sherlock didn’t even have the consideration to say what he intended to bake. He merely straightened up from where he’d leaned more and more on John’s side as the program progressed, nodded and blinked as though saving the file, stood up and went straight for his bedroom.

“Right, then. I’ll just clean all of this up for you, then?” John called after him. Why, he couldn’t say, though. It never had any effect, he knew that perfectly well, and he was used to it. In fact, he probably just ought to be grateful that he had gotten quite the thoughtfulness earlier in the evening, M&S selection and all.

“Looking on the bright side, that’s lunch for tomorrow sorted.”

 

* * *

 

Thursday came and went without mention of the show or the bake. Friday dawned and found Sherlock supine on the sofa, deep in his Mind Palace. John decided not to disturb him.

He briefly wondered, during his trip to work, whether he ought to ask for a good iced biscuit recipe from one of his colleagues and then swing by the shops on his way home or not. There ought to be someone there who had a tried and true recipe from their Nan they could be persuaded to part with. If he then thought of some new flavour for them, it might just appease Sherlock’s posh expectations.

He dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had surfaced. If it had been anyone else, it might have been a good idea. With Sherlock, though, it was as likely he would pick apart just why John apparently didn’t trust his judgement.

“John, are you alright?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Right. So, the constant sighs and the slight grimaces is just for the exercise?” Sarah asked, head cocked slightly.

The blonde smiled, a bit ruefully. “Let’s call it a warmup for the weekend, shall we?”

“Sherlock?”

It was almost funny that it was that obvious. “Yes…gotten it into his head that we should bake together.”

“Compared to his usual ideas that sounds relatively inoffensive. One might even call it sweet, especially given who we’re talking about.”

It would be, if it wasn’t for the fact that we’re watching the Bake Off and, well…”

“He’s decided to pick the most difficult bakes they do there?”

“It was Jaffa cakes on Saturday, the technical challenge.”

“Ah.”

“And they had 3D gingerbread scenes this week. I just _know_ that I’m going to come home and find him making cutters for a 3D skull.”

She looked momentarily thoughtful. “To be fair, that could be a real showstopper. Do you think it’ll be just the skull or would he do the entire skeleton?”

“Sarah…”

“Only kidding.” She patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine, John. Oh, god, the thought of Sherlock Holmes in an apron. Think you just saved my mood there.”

John let his head fall back with a groan.

 

* * *

 

Saturday dawned and dragged its feet well into the morning before John made his reluctant way down into their shared rooms. Truth be told, he dreaded what he might find when he came down into the kitchen and so he had put it off. It could be anything, really.

The fact that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen when he did make it downstairs was not in any way comforting.

When the detective came back home and was once more laden down with shopping bags, John most definitely felt his heart sink.

_Right, easy there. It’s not going to be as bad as…well, you can handle it. You were a bloody soldier._

“So…are you going to divulge what type of design you’ve set your sights on for us to make before we actually start baking, then?” he asked.

Sherlock frowned in apparent incomprehension. “Design?”

“I’m not in the mood for you playing dumb with me, Sherlock. Yes, design. For the gingerbread.”

“Why would I need a design for the gingerbread?”

_Count to three, John. No, count to ten. Perhaps twenty. Again. “_ Correct me if I’m wrong, but our first bake didn’t exactly go off without a hitch and that was with everything in tins and contained. I _really_ don’t think we’ll be able to freestyle an elaborate 3D gingerbread scene.”

“Ah.” The brunette flashed a smile. “Not to worry, then. We’re not.”

“Not what?”

“Not making a 3D scene.”

“Then what _are_ we making?”

“Iced biscuits.”

“Pull the other one,” John snorted. “Never mind that those seemed way too under-ambitious for you, you’ve got far too many things in those bags for it to only be for regular iced biscuits.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “I didn’t know which flavours would be the best to utilize for this and it would be idiotic to go through all the effort only to find out that the flavour combination is off.”

“What, like chocolate, orange jelly and fingers, you mean?” Curious despite himself, John moved closer to get a better look.

Another grimace. “Yes…that. So, I bought a few different things.”

“A _few?”_ the doctor repeated with amusement as he looked in one of the bags. “Sherlock, I think you’ve just possibly raided the entire shelf of essences. Christ, I didn’t even know you could get some of these – wait, is this _barley malt_ extract?”

“Don’t exaggerate, John. It’s only a few bottles. I am aware that natural flavours are preferable and I have found a few, but some seemed impossible to get without a significant expenditure and – “

“This is a significant expenditure, too!” John stopped, took a deep breath, then another one. “Sorry. We’ll find something to use them for, I’m sure. Did you have any plans for which ones to put together, then?”

“Not orange and chocolate.”

“Definitely not, no. But maybe,” John searched through the bags, “we could still go citrus if we use these together with a bit of vanilla extract.” He pulled out a lime and a lemon.

“You want to put those in the biscuits?” The distaste was quite evident in the voice.

“Not in the biscuit. In the icing. A bit of juice and a bit of zest, then perhaps with vanilla in the in biscuits themselves. If we muck up the taste of it, the icing is easy to scrape off, at least.”

“Could you use honey instead?”

“Ehm, I don’t know, really. I guess. I’m basically just throwing out ideas here. Why, you don’t like it?”

“Not as extract, no.”

“Then why the hell did you spend our hard-earned money on a whole bottle of it?”

The detective shifted his gaze so he was not looking at his flatmate. “Because I couldn’t find the pods and…and you buy things with vanilla in them.”

John blinked. That was actually surprisingly thoughtful and sweet.

He went to grab and squeeze a bony hand before he had thought what exactly he was doing through. “Thank you. Let’s save that for another bake, though, yeah? I’m sure there’s some other ruddy bake that needs vanilla extract in it at some point during this.”

He let go of the hand, completely missing the slightly colour in those cheekbones, and started to pull things out of the plastic bags. “While I do this here and put away the things we probably won’t need, could you go get the recipe you’ve found?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“Don’t tell me, you didn’t find a recipe.”

“Several, but I don’t know which – “

“Find Mary Berry’s recipe.”

“One of her recipes was the one that produced those godawful Jaffa cakes.”

John closed the door to the fridge after putting away what he didn’t reckon they need. “She’s not on the show for nothing, you know. _You_ were the one that decided to take on a technical challenge stumping talented people as your very first real bake. It’s not her fault that we managed to completely butcher her recipe.”

“The instructions ought to be clearer.”

“Uh-huh. If you say so. Next time you can find some obscure – no, wait, no. I take that back. No obscure recipes. We’re in enough trouble as it is, really. Now, what does she say we need?”

Sherlock peered at his phone; he had abandoned having the computer on table with them, which would yield them a bit more space to work on. “Plain flour, eggs, butter, caster sugar, mixed spice, milk and cinnamon.”

The doctor surveyed their stock. “Okay, we haven’t got cinnamon and mixed spice. What can we substitute with?”

“Honey?”

“That means more liquid, though, which would mean more flour to make up for it and then we might overcompensate.”

“There’s set honey, that hardly qualifies as liquid.”

“What is it with you and honey?”

“The detective shrugged. “I like honey. I like bees.”

“Yeah, I kinda gathered that, ta. Have we got any of that, then?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he turned and reached for the handle of a cupboard door. Unfortunately, it was right by where John was standing and so he had to lean slightly against the doctor in order to reach it.

“Sherlock!” He ought to sound more outraged than that, John knew, but it was quite hard to do so when the points of contact between their bodies sent warmth spreading through him.

Sherlock didn’t seem to realize or even hear. He settled back on the balls of his feet after a bit of rummaging, a jar of yellowish white substance held in his hand.

John reached for it and was given it. Closer, he could see that there were clear signs of it being taken from. His eyebrows rose. “We had that? Did you buy it recently? I don’t remember seeing it.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. It was on that high shelf for a reason.”

“And what reason would that be?”

“I was saving it.”

John sighed and shook his head. “You’re a selfish git.”

Sherlock shrugged, not fazed in the least. “Each to their own. Not like you’ve never done the same. Need I mention the hobnobs?” He had the cheek to sniff.

“Hey, that’s different. I was just making sure you wouldn’t nick all of them before the guests came.”

Sherlock merely sniffed again. He rolled up his sleeves with an expression of readiness.

“You might want to take your watch off as well unless you want to sit and pick dough out of it later.”

“Says the one who’s done neither.”

John was in the process of finding a big enough bowl, the scales and plug in the electric whisk. “I’m not the who is likely to forget it later either, am I? Now shut up and tell me what she says we’re supposed to do first.” He paused for just a moment. “And don’t even think about pointing out that those are mutually exclusive actions.”

“Preheat the oven.”

“You do that. You’re closer. Then?”

“Measure the butter and sugar into a bowl and beat together until light and fluffy. Beat in the egg yolk. Sieve in – “

“Hold on, not that many instructions at once – quit smirking. How much of each?”

“Eight ounces of butter and six ounces of sugar.”

“…Okay. That’s beaten. Don’t know about light and fluffy, but it’s certainly in the whisks.” He held up the appliance for inspection. Does that look right to you?”

“It looks disgusting to me.”

“Right, fair enough. Would you crack the eggs?”

Sherlock did so, with a finesse that the doctor was not expecting, almost expertly keeping the whites entirely in the shell and out of the bowl. He wasn’t quite as keen on them being cracked straight into the mixture, though.

“Oi, hang on! You have to check whether they’re good or not first.” He leant in and sniffed. “Okay, I think we’re safe enough. Seriously, though, you’d have ruined it if they had been off.”

“There’s enough butter and sugar for another go.”

“Not the point.” There was silence except for the whirr of the whisk as John beat in the yolks. “All done. What’s next?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock pulled the flour over, measured out the right fourteen ounces with an almost theatrical amount of precision. He then got out a sieve from goodness knows where, poured the flour in there over the bowl and started to sieve it while John continued with the whisk.

“When’s the spices supposed to go in?” he asked.

“At the same time as the flour,” Sherlock answered after consulting the recipe. “Could we use some zest?”

The blonde considered this. “It’s not a bad idea,” he conceded, “but I think we’re risking enough with the honey as it is, don’t you? Let’s see if we have a bit of cinnamon somewhere, after all.”

Eventually they found some in the back of a cupboard. They put in the required amount and whisked again.

“Milk’s next,” the detective said. “It says you should pour just enough in to make a soft dough.”

“We still need to get the honey in as well, though.” An idea struck the doctor. “Perhaps if we add a few dollops of honey and then a bit of milk, then we can see how much is needed for the consistency?”

“Worth a try.” Sherlock got out a spoon and put in three spoons of honey. Then he brought the utensil up and licked it.

John saw and had to suppress a shiver. To keep his mind on the task at hand, he added the bit of milk and reached into the bowl to begin bringing the mix together into a dough-like consistency.

So intent was he on the job at hand and ignoring his reaction to the sight that he didn’t hear the sigh coming from beside him or notice that his flatmate then moved behind him.

It was only when a lanky body pressed up against him again that he noticed and it was all he could do not to jump.

“Sherlock! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Warm breath puffed across his jaw as the detective rested his chin on John’s shoulder. “I’m pulling your sleeves up for you, since you managed to forget, even though you said you wouldn’t. Now your hands are all covered in dough.”

Indeed, his hands had come around to grab at one of the cuffs of John’s jumper. They dragged it gently upward until it was just above the elbow, then went down again to undo the cuff of the shirt underneath and pull that up to the same place as the sleeve of the jumper.

All of that would be fine on its own. In fact, it would count as another rather surprisingly thoughtful gesture from the man. There was just a tiny little problem; the long arms had draped across him in order to reach their target and as a consequence, the rest of the lanky body was draped across John’s back.

John felt not only his insides flutter but his nether regions take a definite interest. If asked, he’d challenge anyone not to be affected at least on some level by having a gorgeous man plastered across them.

He set his jaw and tried his damnedest to keep his cool while Sherlock finished the job. When everything was secured to the brunette’s satisfaction, he straightened back up. John just hoped that for once, he was none the wiser.

“There you are. I can’t get your watch off without it getting covered in dough. You’ll have to sit and pick the dough out later, I’m afraid.”

John had to blink a few times. “Ehm…okay. Yeah, that’s fine. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock looked in the bowl. “You might want to start kneading that dough again soon. The heat off your hands is warming up the butter.”

“Oh, bugger.”

“The creativity of your swearwords never ceases to amaze.”

“Piss off. Look, while I’m doing this, you can make yourself useful instead of looming there like some ruddy scarecrow. Make the icing.”

Judging that he had managed a consistency that could be classified as ‘soft’, he turned the dough out on the table. Belatedly he remembered that he ought to have some flour on the table _before_ he turned the dough out. He sprinkled some flour on the surrounding area, then rolled it to get it into the flour. It was sticky and difficult, but he did manage to do it.

“Did you want lemon or orange?”

“I think that our track record isn’t too good with orange, do you?”

“No, but that should be the impetus to try and master it.”

“Fine. Make half of each, then, why don’t you?” John had begun kneading the dough on the table, not hard, but just enough for it to hold together. “Before you get stuck in, though, do we have a rolling pin?”

“I think it broke when your last girlfriend threw it in anger.”

“Did she? I should have known you’d have something to do with our breakup. What did you say to her?”

“Zest or just the juice?”

“Sherlock.”

The detective started to grate the citrus fruits, quite unperturbed. “Nothing, really. Just that she ought to lay bare her financial situation before she started dating someone.”

“That is her private business – “

“She’s a shopaholic, John. Maxed out every single credit card she owns. Didn’t you see how many she carried?”

John didn’t answer. Instead he went to find something to substitute the rolling pin. He located an empty vinegar bottle. It was round and had a good length and weight. It would have to do.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was busy whisking the icing sugar in with the water and the lemon juice. He was being rather vigorous so every now and then a fleck of white flew into the air.

“How thick did it need to be?”

“Quarter of an inch.”

“Right.” How on earth was he supposed to know that? Their tape measure got lost in the detritus of the flat ages ago. “Piece of piss, really.”

“Cake.”

“Biscuit.”

“Whichever. Let me.” Sherlock pushed the other out of the way. “You find a glass to cut them out with.”

“What, you didn’t buy any fancy cutters?”

“Not really in the mood for biting the heads of ginger bread men or animals, so no. Circles are fine.”

When the dough was rolled out, Sherlock took the glass from John’s fingers and quickly cut the biscuits out for the doctor to put on the baking paper on the baking tray.

"How long in the oven?”

“Ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. This time, you’re helping me with the mess, mister Holmes. Grab a tea towel.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Do they look under baked to you?”

Sherlock prodded them. “I have no idea. How are you supposed to tell?”

“No idea. I didn’t dare keeping them in there for longer, though.”

“Probably not a bad idea.”

“Well, ta ever so for that. On the rack, there. Leave to cool.”

“Oh, joy, more waiting.”

 

* * *

 

John was amazed. He so often was when it came to Sherlock’s mind but to see the man manage pipe quite delicate, precise designs onto the previously slightly dull-looking biscuits with icing, that was something else entirely. He particularly liked the subtle colours of the icing.

However, he completely missed that in the almost lace-like pattern letters were detectable; the yellow ones had a small ‘S’ on them while the orange ones had a ‘J’.

As Sherlock straightened up, having just finished the last one, piping bag made of another sheet of baking paper, John saw that his nose had a bit of yellow icing on it. It was probably from when he had gotten a little too close to the biscuit.

Acting before his mind had a chance to catch up, the blonde reached out and swiped his index finger across the tip of the detective’s nose. John then popped the finger into his mouth to suck the icing off.

It was rather good.

When he focused on his flatmate, though, he saw him standing there, blinking with a nonplussed look on his face. Only then did he realize what he had done.

“Ehm, sorry. You had a bit of icing stuck there and…” He trailed off, not knowing how to proceed.

“Thank you.” It didn’t absolve the awkwardness or the fluttering but the words were very appreciated regardless.

They both turned their attention to getting the dried biscuits into a suitable tin.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hollywood wouldn’t accept these.”

“Who?”

“The male judge in the show? The one with the piercing blue eyes and the salt-and-pepper hair.”

“Ah. Well, they may have no snap but rather what we have got than overbaked and hard.”

“Just the fact that they’re edible is a marked improvement over what we achieved last time, in my book.”

“Quite so.”

John took another bite. “You forgot to sieve the juice, though,” he commented after swallowing. “I just got a pip in the icing.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It won’t kill you. Still, I think we might safely say that I can bake.”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“If one bad bake isn’t enough to call it on, then one passable – they are passable, Sherlock, but they aren’t Bake Off quality – one passable bake isn’t enough to call it on, either.” John smiled. This bet isn’t over yet.”

“Oh, I know that, John. The bake is on until the final.”

_Oh, joy._

For once, John couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or genuine, even in his own mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this is amazingly cathartic to me, for some reason. It's slow build, I know, but I hope you'll stick with me :)


	3. Stollen for Bread Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is now baking outside of their weekly bakes but that's the least of it. He continues to press close to John when they watch Bake Off and the accidental touches when they bake only increases. They can't all be coincidental, can they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the sweet people reading, it's greatly appreciated.
> 
> Recipe (without modifications) is here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/stollen_27553

John was a bit more prepared for the next week, in that he didn’t make the mistake of thinking that Sherlock had forgotten about the bake off or their little bet.

He’d even found the time between a case to do a bit of research. That was to say, he’d gone down to ask their landlady for a few tips on general baking, which she’d given after asking for one of their biscuits. When she’d seen the yellow icing on them – Sherlock had been snacking on them ever since they baked them but oddly enough, he had only touched the orange ones – she’d smiled. She had even said that they were a good start. John didn’t have the heart to tell her about their first bake.

On her rather insistent urging, he’d stopped by a Foyles on his way home on the Monday and pick up ‘Mary Berry’s Baking Bible’ and ‘Paul Hollywood’s Bread’.

They were not exactly cheap but he figured that if they were going to keep doing this all the weeks until they reached the final, it would probably turn out to be a very good investment. If nothing else, there was a few bread recipes in there that looked easy enough and, if he made some to take for his lunch, they could probably save a bit of money in the long run.

He left them with Mrs. Hudson when he got in. It was probably foolish to expect Sherlock not to catch on somewhat quickly but John hoped that he, with a bit of luck, could delay the realization of just what he had bought until he brought them out as a sort of present after they had watched the show on Wednesday.

There was no reaction when he came in half an hour later, having had a very lovely chat with the elderly woman. In fact, Sherlock seemed deeply immersed in the case he was working on, even though he had proclaimed it nothing but a five. He certainly didn’t hear John when he called a greeting but that could as well just be Sherlock being Sherlock.

Quite unbothered, John went into the kitchen and got a bit of a surprise. There was a bowl standing in the middle of the table, covered with cling film and clearly filled with something that was creating condensation on the film.

Completely nonplussed, the doctor went back into the living room and stood in front of the detective, who was sitting, fingers steepled, in an odd position in his chair. Again. It was clear that he was thinking but John didn’t much care.

“Sherlock, why the hell is there a bowl of dough in the kitchen? Correct me if I’m wrong, and I know that you will, but I thought we were going to make the different cakes and breads together.”

In truth, he had thought about the possibility that once Sherlock gained a footing and a confidence in baking, he would try things on his own. That wasn’t a bad thing, far from it, except for the worry that it would mean John would end up being left out, unnecessary and unwanted. Surplus to requirement.

It was a stupid worry, he knew that, but that didn’t stop it from having niggled at the back of his mind for a bit.

It didn’t seem that Sherlock had heard him. John was just about to give up on getting any sort of contact when the pale eyes focussed. “What? No, of course we’re baking together. Don’t be stupid.”

John’s heart did an odd, but not unpleasant little flip at the words. He tried not to let that show. Instead he raised his eyebrows. “Really? What’s that out in the kitchen, then? Cause it sure does look like dough to me.”

“It’s an experiment.”

“Experiment? Experiment in what, exactly? Apart from bread, obviously.”

“I’m making baguettes.”

John opened his mouth to say something, stopped and shut it again. His jaw worked for a moment, lips pressed. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “Of course, you would be. But of bleeding course. Trust you to take a bread that’s hard to get right and takes forever to proof properly as the one you want to experiment on. What are you experimenting with? Different flavour combos? If mould will help it rise? What?”

“Which type of yeast is best for the conditions of our kitchen.”

“That’s hardly an experiment!”

“It is when the flat we live in is badly isolated, with a few damp issues and prone to heat fluctuations. There could be a marked difference under those conditions between the fresh yeast, the dry and the fast-acting.”

“Honestly, I can’t see that happening.”

Pale eyes narrowed. “So, you don’t mind the bread failing to rise when we bake together because we didn’t take the different types of yeast into account?”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, pray?”

_What did I mean? I’m not sure. Oh, hell. “_ Look, Sherlock, it’s good that you’re trying to eliminate a possible problem and it’s not that I don’t appreciate you thinking of it. I just think that there’s a lot of places where we can muck it up even if we get the yeast right.”

“Then we just have to try out every possible variable.”

“Then what? Just throw out all the ones that doesn’t work? Ingredients aren’t free.”

“Oh, yes, of course it would come down to money, because that’s all that really matters…”

“It’s not about the money, it’s about us!”

Sherlock was silent at that so John’s last word hung in the air, long enough for him to feel the weight of it.

“What…” the blonde started, attempting to backpedal slightly just so he wouldn’t be seen as overstepping whatever boundary Sherlock was comfortable with. “What I meant was…the baking is…is about us. About doing something together that isn’t murders and mysteries. At least that’s what I look forward to.”

He held his breath after that little confession, waiting to see how his flatmate would react.

What he got was not what he had expected. Not at all. For a second, there was a look of surprise followed by a genuine smile. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared but it most definitely had been there.

Before he knew what was happening, John had been grabbed by the hand and dragged into the kitchen. The current dough had, he was told, finished its first proofing and needed to be kneaded well and shaped. Then there was another proofing and then they went into the oven.

It turned out that it needed more proofing and a lot more baking than they had given it, as the bread was just a little bit too dense and the crust had no real snap. They’d also forgotten the diagonal cuts into the baguettes before they went into the oven.

Despite that, they did taste alright if a bit doughy.

“Nothing some butter and some jam won’t sort out,” John said cheerfully. He was feeling rather pleased with himself, even if he hadn’t done all that much work in the grand scheme of things. Sherlock hummed a reply around the piece he was eating.

Something struck the doctor long after; impatient Sherlock had chosen a bread that took a long time to rise properly and what was more, had managed to stick with it all the way through to the finished bake.

* * *

 

_“Now, for your signature challenge, we would love you to make a chocolate bread.”_

_“The bread must contain chocolate in any form; cocoa powder, molten chocolate, chocolate chip, the choice is entirely yours.”_

_“Shape and design it in any way you see fit.”_

_“You have two and a half hours for this signature bake.”_

_“On your marks. Get set. Baaake.”_

As the program went on and you saw what everyone was planning, it became clear that a chocolate loaf was a type of bread that was not only sweet but required an enriched dough and plenty of time to proof and to bake if it wasn’t to end up raw and unappetizing.

“Idiots.”

It was the first comment Sherlock had uttered since they’d sat down to watch, another plate of Marks and Sparks snacks on the table as well as slices of their own bread and a hot mug of tea each. Of course, it wasn’t exactly an endorsement.

“Sherlock.”

“No, they are. This is the third week and they still have no idea how to budget their times. The breads they’ve chosen almost all need far more time to be done properly than they have, quite apart from the mess ups they do. Look at that one.” The brunette pointed and John felt the shift of the arm as they had once again ended up sitting close enough to touch, though the doctor would swear that they hadn’t at the start and that he hadn’t moved. “She’s just said that it’s not risen as much as she would hope and is pinning her hopes on the second proof. That’s beggar belief if ever there was.”

“Oi, leave Jane alone. I like her.” In fact, he was rather hoping that it would be her that won. Or that Tom fellow, he seemed nice, too.

“That’s just because she reminds you of your Nan, John, it’s hardly relevant.”

John paused to consider. “True,” he conceded. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that they’re all asked to make a type of loaf that requires a lot longer than they have. It’s hardly their fault they can’t make it.”

“They could have chosen another type of dough. Time management is always important.”

“Says the git who lazes about for hours doing nowt.”

“Don’t try for an accent, you’re rubbish at them – and stop squirming. I’m comfortable.”

“I’m not squirming, I’m reaching for a mini quiche, and it’s not my fault you’ve decided to plaster yourself to my side like that.” Not that he was complaining, but Sherlock didn’t need to know that.

“You’re warm.”

“So, I’m just a heater to you? Ta for that.”

“Not what I meant.” If anything, Sherlock actually managed to press closer. As he was only in his PJs and dressing gown, John could feel the heat of the body radiating off it. It was warm and lovely and…other things. He shifted slightly to adjust, hoping desperately that no comment would be made.

They were both quickly focusing on the show again, John becoming so absorbed that he didn’t notice Sherlock sliding down a little further so his head was resting ever so slightly on John’s shoulder.

The technical challenge was ‘dampfnudel’, something which John had never heard of, but which he decided right away that they were not going to try, come hell or high water. Especially not when it became clear how much all the contestants struggled with them.

Sherlock didn’t comment on them one way or the other. That was not a comforting thing.

“Plaited bread, where the hell do they come up with those things?”

“Germany, probably. It is the showstopper, it has to be something extra.”

“Extra? They’re supposed to make a centrepiece in bread with three different flours, put different savoury flavours in there, too, and then on top of that, it’s also supposed to be plaited. That’s not extra, that’s nuts.”

Sherlock shrugged and made a noncommittal noise. Only then did John become aware of their positions.

_God, he’s going to be the death of me. Does he do it on purpose? No, he can’t be. Sherlock doesn’t think of such things. Probably. Oh, god._

To cover up his realization, he added, “I’m not making a plaited centrepiece as our bake. Not this time. Just putting that out there.”

Another noncommittal noise was his answer.

They remained in position throughout the showstopper. When the star baker was announced, John smiled. Now both his favourites had won star baker.

The program ended and Sherlock straightened up, no comment on his position.

“I think it’s pretty clear which one we ought to make.”

“What, plaited bread, you mean?”

“No. Chocolate loaf.”

“Ah.”

_Well, it could be worse,_ John thought as he tidied up. _It could have been dampfnudel._

* * *

This time, it was John who went to the shops for ingredients, on the Friday while Sherlock was kept busy with a case from Mycroft that didn’t warrant John’s help. Apparently.

They had, after quite some argument and going through different sweet bread recipes online, agreed on making a stollen with marzipan where they’d replace the dried fruits with chocolate chips. John had worried that it would mean the moisture would be too great without the dried fruit, however, and that it would mean the spices that was to be added wouldn’t taste all that good.

The compromise was that they’d keep in some dried fruit that would go with the chocolate, such as dried cherries, and then leave out the very Christmassy spices such as nutmeg and cloves. Sherlock was adamant that was for the best in any case, since adding those would ruin the whole thing. John had stuck with saying nothing.

As he wheeled his trolley through the supermarket, John was struck by the list of ingredients. True, their larder was quite surprisingly well stocked by that point so he didn’t have to buy sugar, butter or even the fast action yeast. That still left full-fat milk, strong flour – Sherlock had used up all that they’d had on the baguettes – the dried fruit, almonds, fruits to get the mixed peel from and the marzipan.

“Baking with your wife?” the cashier asked sweetly as she rang up his items. She couldn’t have been more than 19 and her hair was almost screaming that it’d been dyed one too many times.

“Something like that, yes,” he answered in an equally nice tone of voice. There was no need to correct her just because she’d gone for the obvious, but wrong conclusion. “It’s something to do together.” God, he sounded downright pathetic, didn’t he?

“God, I wish I had a boyfriend like that,” she sighed. “Wanting to spend time together that’s not just warm up to the next shag.”

“Give it time,” he said with a smile and a wink. “We do grow out of thinking with our groins at some point. Well, most blokes do, anyway.”

She grinned back. “I like you. Think your wife will throw a wobbler if you get a mistress?”

The absurd image of Sherlock throwing a tantrum if John came home with a 19-year-old slip of a girl to join them made a laugh bubble up inside of him.

“She might do,” he laughed. “I don’t think we should risk it.”

The girl didn’t seem put out in the slightest. “Alright. Worth a go, wasn’t it?” she grinned. “That’ll be £27.39, sir.”

* * *

 

Sherlock finished his case surprisingly quickly, throwing himself into it with a fervour that seemed quite at odds with his ranking of it and his normal disdain of Mycroft’s cases.

He was out all Saturday morning but managed to get back home a little past noon, grimy and smelling.

He barged straight into the kitchen when he didn’t find John in the living room and sure enough, the doctor was putting out all the necessary ingredients and whatever utensils he could find in the kitchen or beg to borrow from Mrs. Hudson.

“Christ, you stink,” John said by way of greeting.

“Yes, yes, Bywaters will do that to you. You haven’t started without me, have you?”

“No, just putting out everything we need before we find out we need it this time. Wait, hang on. What the hell were you doing at a landfill? No, wait, I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Suspect tried to get rid of vital evidence. Not successfully, of course.”

“And so, you decided to one-up your bin-diving? The fact that you’re still walking around freely ought to surprise me but then I remember who your brother is.”

Sherlock made a small noise of acquiescence and moved closer.

“Stop. I said, stop.” John folded his arms over his chest. “You are not baking in that outfit.”

He got an affronted expression for his troubles. “It’s not the outfit itself, you toff, it’s the fact that it’s absolutely covered in Christ only knows what and it consequently…well, it reeks, quite frankly. I am not sharing a kitchen with you for any length of time, let alone let you anywhere near the dough. Or perhaps you want a repeat of the Jaffa cakes?”

The mention had the desired effect. Sherlock made a face before he turned and headed towards the bathroom.

“Don’t leave the clothes on the floor!” the blonde called after him, even though he was well aware of who’d be picking up the stuff later on. He sighed.

He looked at the recipe. The smart thing would be to get started on the bread while Sherlock stood under the spray – and wasn’t that a lovely mental image that John didn’t need at that specific moment – especially considering that the first proof was between one and two hours. It was a long time to have to wait.

On the other hand, it would mean starting the bake without Sherlock. Not only did he not think that would go over very well at all with the detective, it would also negate one of the points that John so enjoyed about their baking; that it was something that they did _together,_ as far as possible _._

So, John decided to spend the wait blanching the almonds with some water that was just about to boil in the kettle, by the sound of it.

He’d only just poured the water over the almonds when his flatmate reappeared in the kitchen, curls dark with damp and clinging to his forehead and an outfit that was far more appropriate for their afternoon activity.

“That was surprisingly quick. Could you – hang on, that’s not your shirt. Why have you stolen one of my t-shirts?”

“Because mine are all in the hamper and I don’t want to wear a proper shirt for this, in any case.”

“Glad to be of use,” John deadpanned. Ignoring the heat of the water, he put his hands into the boiled water after a few moments and started to skin the almonds.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had taken the bowl that John had put out. “What’s first, then?”

“Oi, who said you were the one who got to make the dough?”

“Besides the fact that you’re busy with something else already, you’ve taken charge of the last two bakes _and_ I’ve had more experience with bread dough.”

“You’ve baked one portion of baguettes, that hardly counts.” John got a raised eyebrow in response. “Oh, alright, fine. Why do even bother arguing with you?”

Sherlock measured the flour and sugar out into the bowl. “Because you have a small streak of masochism that has also – “

“Yes, alright! No need to spell it out, it was a bloody rhetorical question, you berk. There’s the yeast.”

“Salt goes on the other side.”

“I can read, you know. Milk and butter’s next.”

“Did you soften it? It usually has to be softened.”

“It’s been out of the fridge for half an hour, it ought to be plenty softened in this heat, don’t you think? There you go, milk and butter. You’ve got to stir that properly, though, not that la di-da way.”

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise, but did get his fingers stuck in, stirring the ingredients together while John gently poured in the rest of the milk.

He then put flour onto the table so the dough could be turned out onto it. Once the dough was on the table, the brunette started to knead it, John looking on.

“You’re not doing that right.”

“Since when you did become an expert at dough kneading?”

“About the same time you decided to start annoying your brother, I should think. My Nan taught me how to knead bread, actually, and you’re kneading that way too gently. Give it here.”

Sherlock made another annoyed noise and continued to knead, probably out of obstinacy. He paused to add the rest of the ingredients, including the chocolate chips, however, and John seized the opportunity to get hold of the dough right after the ingredients had gone in and before the detective started to knead again, which earned him a squawk of indignation from his flatmate.

He merely grinned and continued kneading, trying to make up for the less than stellar kneading beforehand. Before he got a rhythm going, though, Sherlock attempted to snatch back the dough. John wasn’t letting go of it, however, which led to them struggling a bit with who had their hands on the dough.

It ended up with Sherlock’s hands on the dough and John’s hands on top of them, even though John was the one positioned between the table and the younger Holmes. When he noticed, the doctor fought two conflicting desires, none of which he wanted to do; to yank his hands off and give away that he was a tiny bit affected by the position or to interlace his hands with the other man. He swallowed, frozen in indecision.

“We’ll probably ruin the yeast if we continue like this,” the brunette commented, an odd crack to his voice that didn’t register with John until sometime later. “Go on, then. Show me how it’s supposed to be done.”

He made no move to remove his hands, though. Their eyes met and the same charge that had been in the air at their first bake together filled the non-existent space between them. John swallowed again, more heavily this time. There was colour on those high cheekbones but that could be put down to their small scuffle.

“Right.” Taking a deep breath, John mentally shook himself and concentrated on the dough in front of them. Slowly he started to move, letting the remembered motions guide his own hands and therefore the bony hands interlaced with his own.

_You can do, this, John. Piece of…well, stollen. You can do it. You can…Oh, good grief, why does he have to be so close and smell so nice? There ought to be a law._

His predicament wasn’t in any way helped when felt something brush against him. He convinced himself it was just a trouser leg. Mostly convinced himself.

All things considered, they did manage to make a quite good dough that seemed to be of the right consistency, even though they had changed a few things.

It went into the bowl again to rise and, since they’d forgotten to buy more cling film, the tea towel went over instead.

It was only when they’d put the bowl away to rise somewhere warm and Sherlock was stretching in order to place it that John realized that up until that point they had continue to, essentially, hold hands.

_Calm down, John. It was just a…well, an accident. Could happen to anyone, couldn’t it? Just a bit of lack of thought, really._

But Sherlock always _thought_ , didn’t he? Even when he claimed he didn’t, he did.

John very much hoped that the reddening of his ears wouldn’t be noticed or at least not commented on.

 

* * *

 

John prodded the dough ever so slightly. “Is that doubled in size?”

“How should I know? I didn’t bring a tape measure.”

“You’re the one who claims to be observant. Anyway, it’ll rise right out of the bowl if it’s allowed to rise more. Out it comes. Then what?”

“It’s supposed to be flattened and rolled out into a rectangle where its shortest side matches the longest side of the baking tray.”

“Right. Want to try that in English next? Cause I’m certain that was pure gibberish.”

“Just make a rectangle that’ll fit the tray.” Sherlock pulled out the marzipan and popped a plucked off piece into his mouth.

John sighed at the sight but he couldn’t help smiling, either. “The more you eat of that, the less goes in the bread, you know. It’s up to you.”

“You should have bought more.”

In the end, there was plenty of marzipan to go in the middle of the rectangle. They decided that although the recipe called for the dough to be rolled around the marzipan, they didn’t feel like braving that, so instead they folded dough on either side over, making sure that everything was properly sealed up.

“There. Doesn’t look too shabby, though, does it? Then there’s another hour of proofing.”

“This takes forever.”

“It’s only an hour, don’t whine. Anyway, you were the one to insist on a sweetbread, Sherlock. They take time.”

“It says fast-acting yeast, one would think that would mean a quicker rise.”

“Probably does. You can help me tidy in the meantime.”

“…Fine.”

 

* * *

 

The bake itself took another hour and then it had to cool, since it should be served cold. Despite his grumbling and moaning, however, Sherlock took the wait rather well – if sitting in front of the oven and watching the bread bake with the same intensity of expression that he normally had for one of his experiments or a particularly tricky clue was taking it well.

“A watched pot never boils, you know.”

“Spare me for your proverbs, John.”

John went over to stand beside the man kneeling on the floor then squatted to be on eye level. “It’ll be fine. Look, the chocolate chips have melted a bit over there already.”

“Where?”

“There.”

John pointed. Unfortunately, he also turned his head slightly at the same moment and so did Sherlock. Their noses brushed and, more importantly, so did their lips.

It was the briefest of touches and wouldn’t qualify as anything even resembling a kiss. Nevertheless, both pair of eyes widened slightly at the realization of their position and both men scooted backwards, as much as the lack of space around them would allow.

“Ehm…”

“Don’t mention it.” This time there was no mistaking the colour on those high cheekbones but that could be from the heat of the oven as much as it could be related to John and what had just happened.

They sat there for another minute or so, just staring at each other. The charge in the air was back.

“How long left?”

Sherlock didn’t even look at his watch. “Nineteen minutes.”

John swallowed then got up, perhaps a bit quicker than he ought to. He held out his hand and Sherlock took it. Once both were upright, they turned their attention back to the bread. Neither said anything.

 

* * *

 

By the time the bread was finally out and had been brushed with butter, they had returned to their normal back and forth, neither of them mentioning what had happened.

 

* * *

 

“See?” Sherlock was speaking around a mouthful of chocolate stollen. “I told you they were idiots.”

“They had two and a half hours to do it, start to finish. We spent over two hours just on the proofing, never mind the time it took to bake – and the kneading.” John fought the urge to clear his throat. “That’s hardly a fair comparison.”

“Then they should’ve chosen different breads.”

“You know, I’m not going to argue with you over this again. I’m far too tired.” John took a bite out of his own slice. “It’s rather on the sweet side, isn’t it? Though I suppose when you put cherries, chocolate and marzipan in there, and you’ve already got sugar and butter, it should come as no surprise, really.” He swallowed and took another bite. “Not sure about the vanilla, though, but otherwise, it’s not too bad.”

“Spoken like a true Englishman; damned by faint praise.”

“As if you’re one to talk. You’re the one who could easily pass for lord of the manor.”

Sherlock smiled, another of those warm smiles that never failed to make John’s insides flutter. “I like the thought of you in a bowler and a waistcoat far better. Perhaps with a moustache?” He paused as his thoughts veered off in another direction. “So, that’s another one in the ‘success’ stack, I should think. “What’s next week?”

“Batter week, I believe.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Somehow, I doubt it.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” The smile turned into an impish grin.

_Probably the same place my heart has thundered off to_ , John thought. Nevertheless, he was grinning back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still enjoying writing this (the accidental kiss in particular here), so I'm going to keep going :) Think this might become exclusive to AO3, though. :) We'll see.  
> Merry Christmas to everyone :)


	4. Batter Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another recipe. John gets more and more confused by Sherlock's behaviour until it eventually causes a mishap while they're baking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everybody! :)  
> I'm apparently keeping this just a week behind Tumblr. Hope that works for everyone :)  
> No recipe today, I'm afraid, for a good reason.  
> Thank you, everyone who has given feedback :D <3

“Oh, John, there you are. I’m so glad I caught you.”

“What can I help you with, Mrs. H?” he asked, stopping on his way up the stairs to their flat. It was Sunday evening and he was bringing home Indian.

He ought to see if he could pick up an extra shift or two. It seemed like they were haemorrhaging money at the moment. Well, he was, at any rate.

The elderly lady peered up at him from the bottom of the stairs. “I’ve just got to ask, dear, it won’t take a moment.”

John smiled warmly and moved down a step or two. “Go ahead.”

“It’s just that – did you mean to wait until Christmas or maybe his birthday to give them to him?” At the doctor’s frown of puzzlement, she clarified, “The cookbooks. Oh, I had a little peek in them, too, which I know I shouldn’t if they’re a gift but I just thought that one tiny little – “

“No, no, no, it’s fine. It’s all perfectly fine, don’t worry about it.” Truth be told, he had in fact completely forgotten about the books he’d left with her earlier in the week. In the whole argument of what they should bake, which had started right after the end of the program and had included trying to convince Sherlock baking a plaited bread was not a good idea at all, the idea of giving them to Sherlock had completely faded from his mind.

She moved out a bit further and he saw that she was holding said books. “Did you want me to hold onto them for you until then? He does poke his nose in, so I quite understand if you’d rather…”

The doctor put the bag of food down and moved to the bottom of the stairs. “No, that’s fine. I’ll take them up with me. I might as well give them to him now while he still has an inkling of interest in baking and they might see some use.”

“Oh, I think it’s absolutely lovely that he’s taken an interest in baking and you do it together,” she trilled. “Two best friends spending time together, isn’t that nice?”

John gave another smile at that, this one a little bit more strained. He thanked her for the help, put the books under one arm, grabbed hold of his take away bag with the other and trudged back up the stairs.

“Food, Sherlock!” he called as he came in the front door, kicking it shut behind him. He went into the kitchen and found some plates, plated up the food and brought it back into the living room. There was no sign of the detective in either room. “Come on, you bloody scarecrow, you’re the one who said you wanted Indian.”

There was no answer.

“Seems like I’m eating for two tonight,” John muttered.

He’d only just started when Sherlock came into the room from his bedroom. The man scanned the room, alighted on the table and swooped in. it was not the food he went for, though, it was the books lying on the table beside the doctor.

Unfortunately for him, John was resting his elbow on them and so he couldn’t easily get to them. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t try, though.

“Let go, John.”

“No, I won’t. First off, they’re not yours and it’s rude just to take without asking first.”

Pale eyes narrowed. “You bought them for me.”

“Might have,” John answered evasively. “Might not. Whatever my intentions, though, I haven’t given them to you yet and so you can’t just take possession of them.”

“What are your conditions?”

“Sit down, eat up and behave yourself for a bit. Then you might get one of them.”

“Do I have to say pretty please as well?” Despite his grumbling, however, Sherlock did sit down and pulled his plate over to him.

“Now you’re just being bratty.”

Throughout dinner, Sherlock kept stealing glances at the books, like a kid impatient on their birthday.

Once they were both done, John smiled and handed the books over. Grabbing them, Sherlock nodded, rose and disappeared back into his bedroom.

“You’re welcome,” John called after him, getting no answer. He shook his head.

“Bloody git, don’t know what I see in him sometimes,” he mumbled, which was a lie.

 

* * *

 

 

Wednesday evening rolled around and John was making the preparations for watching the bake off. He’d gotten home early from his shift to find food ready and waiting for him in the fridge. There were the things they’d had for the previous two weeks but among the store-bought rolls and quiches there was also a few lopsided sandwiches and what he had to guess was supposed to be scones.

“Bloody hell, he's been baking again,” he muttered, somewhat thrown. Now that he knew their baking together wasn’t in jeopardy, he didn’t mind Sherlock baking on his own. That didn’t mean it wasn’t very unexpected; it looked like the younger Holmes was getting genuine enjoyment out of doing it, something which could not be said about very many things.

The cookbooks hadn’t made an appearance since he’d taken them to his room but John had a feeling they weren’t just gathering dust.

Five minutes before the show began he sat down on the sofa, a mug of tea in hand. He was about to call on his flatmate but was spared the trouble when the man walked, rather briskly, into the room, looked around very briefly and then continued to the sofa where he sat down and drew his legs up, getting comfortable. John vaguely noticed that the man had once again managed to sit so that he was almost, but not quite pressing against the doctor’s side.

“Thought you’d decided to bail on me.”

Sherlock turned his head and fixed the other with an odd look. “Why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, really. Perhaps because you’ve been holing yourself up in there for quite a while or the fact that you’ve decided to bake, “he here held up a sandwich, “which I’m not complaining about, don’t get me wrong, but you decided to once again bake without me. Sometimes even I manage to pick up on stuff.”

“Yet you still manage to arrive at completely the wrong conclusion. The fact that I’ve been baking has got nothing to do with our baking together. Now would you be quiet? You seem determined to blabber over the start of the show and I miss important details.”

“Well, find it on the net later, why don’t you?” John mumbled. He couldn’t help smiling slightly, though.

His smile widened when he saw what the signature challenge was going to be. Yorkshire puddings sounded like an ideal bake, in his opinion. If they could get the pastry right, then he didn’t really mind what kind of filling went in there.

Knowing Sherlock, though, it would probably not be that one they’d end up making, then.

When John glanced over at his flatmate, he found that he was still seemingly very engrossed in the program and what was more, he had a small notebook with him that he occasionally jotted things down in.

 _Wait, hang on, that’s all wrong. I’m the one who takes notes, not him. Why does he need to take notes? He remembers stuff without aid all the time._ Something then struck him. _But perhaps…perhaps he thinks he might push it out of his mind later on and wants to avoid that. I don’t know, the bloody git makes no sense._

As though to confirm that exact thought, he realized that Sherlock had once again closed the non-existent distance between them and was leaning against John as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. There was no way it could keep on being a coincidence.

What made John pause from pointing it out, however, was the fact that this was the only time it happened. There was no sitting close when they otherwise had a quiet evening in, there was no touches beyond what was normal for them when they weren’t baking or watching the bake off. It was strictly confined to those times and wasn’t otherwise spoken of, so he had a sneaking suspicion that it had more to do with John overthinking things and reading something into it that just wasn’t there.

_Focus on the show and what you’ve actually got, Watson, you blooming idiot. Don’t go making things harder on yourself by thinking there’s something there that most definitely isn’t. Everybody needs some sort of human contact, even Sherlock, and he’s just found a way of getting a bit of it. It’s not his fault that you’re holding a torch for him and therefore is far more likely to misinterpret his, admittedly, unusual actions._

John mentally returned to the present in time to see how the different versions of Yorkshire puddings were received and winced a bit at some of the comments. Especially when it came to poor Tom.

Next was, of course, the technical challenge and John couldn’t help the frown of puzzlement.

“Did I hear that right?” he asked out loud. “Is the technical challenge really making _pancakes_? Did the judges have a meltdown or something?”

“They’re lace pancakes, it’s not quite the same.”

“Even so. I mean, _pancakes_!”

Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t tell me you were going to say ‘how hard can that be?’?” he asked, the smirk evident in his voice. “I’m sure if we watch it, we’ll see just what the problem might be.”

Indeed, the judges, as they always did, sat down and explained just what the problems could be but John still wasn’t too convinced. That was, until he saw the bakers try to make them.

_Well, they’re lacy and delicate and, more importantly, they’re heart-shaped. For the person who abhors sentiment, they’re hardly the obvious choice, quite apart from the fact that he can’t stuff them full of jam._

When the showstopper was announced, he didn’t know whether to feel relief, another bout of dread or a combination of the two. Churros did not seem like an easy bake at the best of days, especially not when they had to be fried, but on the other hand, they also seemed kinda fun and they would probably appeal to Sherlock. Suddenly, he couldn’t quite recall what his objections to lacy pancakes were.

As the show ended, Sherlock made no move to get up. Instead he burrowed a bit more into John’s side, causing the doctor to have to swallow hard. The man was pushing buttons just for the hell of it, he was sure.

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, John then managed to ask, far more casually than he felt, “Comfortable there, are we?”

Sherlock only made a small noise of agreement. Otherwise he didn’t move.

Another heavy swallow. “Right. Good. Well, while I’ve got you, then, perhaps you can be persuaded to let me know which of the bakes you want to tackle this time? It’s just that I’d like to know this time _before_ we’re actually making it, and no, five or ten minutes before doesn’t count.”

“You knew last week.”

“That was only because you were shouting about the ineptitude of online recipe makers and I asked. That does not count.”

Sherlock huffed, as though in slight annoyance. “Alright, fine. I was thinking we should make churros.”

John closed his eyes as he titled his head against the back of the sofa. “Of bleeding course, why wouldn’t you? Why wouldn’t you pick the most difficult bake with a dough we’ve never tried before and it has to be boiled as well?”

“And you wonder why I don’t tell you beforehand.” There was a very audible note of petulance sneaking into the baritone voice. “If you don’t feel up to it, then we can always – “

“That wasn’t what I said, now was it?” John interrupted. He resisted the urge to whack the back of the brunette’s head. “We’ll make the things, of course. I’m just saying…well, don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

“So far you haven’t warned me about anything. You’ve just managed to moan and complain.”

“Well, then, consider it a taste of your own medicine.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Churros? Really?”

“Yes, really, John. Come on, we’ve done so well on the last few bakes. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

_Those are famous last words if ever I heard some._

 

* * *

 

It took quite a bit of argument to even remotely convince Sherlock that if they were indeed going to make churros, they would not attempt to make it more difficult for themselves than they absolutely had to. That meant no elaborate shapes or fancy additions to the flavour.

Sherlock had tried to win the argument by complimenting John on his sense for flavours but the doctor wasn’t going to be swayed that easily. Choux pastry was notorious, there was no need to make it harder. What Sherlock could do, if he really felt like making it extra hard on himself, was try and make a jam, preferably one that didn’t taste of fingers.

Eventually Sherlock had agreed. Why exactly John didn’t know and he didn’t press.

 

* * *

 

Saturday came and for once, Sherlock was home in the morning. What was more, he was up bright and early and not in the process of destroying anything. John didn’t quite know whether he ought to be excited or relieved.

“So, what’s the plan, then?”

“Follow the recipe.”

“Brilliant. Did you spend all night working on that one?”

Sherlock started pulling out utensils, bowls, a saucepan and a pot for the oil. “There’s no need to be nervous. After all, you boil the choux pastry instead of baking it, so the risk of it collapsing halfway through is minimal.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Please, John. Your attempts at sarcasm gets considerably more pronounced whenever you’re uncomfortable with something.” The detective rolled up his sleeves. “Now would you come over here and help?”

“Alright, alright, hold your horses.”

John moved over to his flatmate at the kitchen table, tugging his own shirt sleeves up to his elbow. They wouldn’t stay up, though, so after a few tries he capitulated and started to unbutton it. He completely missed the look he got from Sherlock when he shrugged it off, leaving him in just a t-shirt.

“Before we begin anything, I want to know we have things sorted. So, baking trays.”

“Ready.” Sherlock made a tilt of his head. “Over on the worktop.”

“Good. Piping bags? Oh, they’re right here, I see. Thermometer?”

“What do we need a thermometer for?”

“What do we –? The oil, Sherlock. Overheating the oil is not the smartest of ideas.”

“Can’t you tell just by looking?”

“Now you’re just pulling my leg. Come on, you’ve got all the fancy gear, you must have a thermometer in there somewhere.”

“It’s not _gear_ – and you should have one yourself. You’re the doctor.”

“A thermometer meant for people is not meant to go into hot oil as well.” John drew a hand over his face. “Shit. Don’t tell me that means we haven’t got a thermometer?”

“Apparently not.”

“…And you’ve already started on making the pastry, I see. Great. Sherlock, don’t you think we ought to have things sorted and ready before starting? No, wait, what am I saying? Sorry, I completely forgot who I was talking to for a moment.”

“It’ll be fine. Just heat it gently.”

“Right…right…” Somehow, he very strongly doubted that.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, John ran down to Mrs. Hudson to politely ask whether she had one she would be kind enough to lend them. She agreed with a very sweet smile, on the condition that she got to taste what they were making this time, and handed it to him after only a bit of rummaging.

He thanked her and quickly made his way back upstairs, in time for the things in Sherlock’s pan to start boiling. He put the thermometer down and helped to pour in the eight ounces of flour they’d already measured out beforehand.

Sherlock nodded his thanks and started to beat the mixture. While he did that, John poured the oil into the pot they’d have to use for it and put it on a low heat. It wouldn’t do to heat it too quickly. He ignored the way his heart was beating in his chest due to their proximity.

It didn’t last, in any case. As soon as the mixture came away from the side of the pan as it was supposed to, Sherlock moved it off the heat.

“It says ‘leave to cool before adding the eggs’, but it doesn’t specify how long that cooling ought to be.” Sherlock sounded decidedly miffed.

“What, the great Sherlock Holmes can’t deduce it?”

“Oh, shut up.” Pale eyes peered into the mixture. Then he nodded as though satisfied with something and reached over.

“Little further behind you.”

“Can’t you give it to me?”

“Nope, sorry. Busy with the oil.”

Now you’re being childishly stubborn.”

 _Takes one to know one._ “You can reach it just – oh, fine.” He reached out, somehow managed to grab all four eggs with one hand and deposited them in Sherlock’s outstretched hand. Their fingers touching sent a tiny shiver through the doctor, which he admonished himself for. “There, you got me fetching again. Happy?”

The detective gave him a grin for his troubles. He laid down three of the eggs on the worktop, broke one against the edge of the pan and started to beat as soon as the egg touched the mixture. He continued that process until all four eggs was in.

“It hasn’t split. Remarkable.”

Sherlock harrumphed and added the vanilla extract. “I still think vanilla’s a horrible thing to put in.”

“Says the man who insisted on putting marzipan in the stollen along with the chocolate.”

“That had precedence.”

“The chocolate didn’t. Come on, what’s wrong with vanilla? You like enough sweet things as it is.”

“Is that oil getting anywhere near ready?” the detective asked, neatly avoiding the comment and the question.

John checked the thermometer. “Nope. We’re around a hundred degrees and it needs to be,” he checked the recipe on the computer, “190 degrees C, according to this. Ought to leave you plenty of time to pipe them out and cool in the freezer.”

“Which nozzle?”

“Star nozzle.” John watched Sherlock put the batter in the piping bag and start to pipe it onto the tray. “I thought we agreed not to do anything idiotically fancy.”

“This hardly counts as fancy.” The brunette moved slightly, ostensibly to get a better angle on piping them out but it also meant that John couldn’t really see what was being piped.

“Fine, whatever.”

By the time all the churros had been piped and with some difficulty had been put into the freezer, which was mercifully free of any body parts or similar, the oil was nearing 150 degrees.

“How long did it need to stay in the freezer for?”

“Ten minutes. God, all this waiting!”

“You’re the one who wanted to do this in the first place, Sherlock – hang on, what are you doing?”

“We’ve some left over chocolate, I thought we could make some ganache for the dipping.”

“Alright, okay. Could you not have waited until you’ve gotten the churros out of the freezer again, though?”

“The cream has to be heated first, which will take time.”

“So…now you’re just waiting for two things instead of one?” John asked, failing to hide his grin.

Sherlock merely made a small noise, possibly in annoyance, and settled in to wait, leaning against the kitchen table. John noticed that the detective once again had settled almost as close to the doctor as he possibly could.

_Oh, for pity’s sake, man, have a little compassion on my heart, would you?_

Nine minutes later the tray with the churros came out of the freezer.

“How many have we got?”

“Twelve.”

“And it says four at a time. But that’s for just a stripe, I think.”

“Is the oil hot enough?”

“Yeah, it’s 188, I believe, that ought to be fine. No, don’t put more than four in a time.”

“The pot is bigger.”

“So are the shapes you’ve made, you idiot.”

In the end, five went in and bobbed up to turn after three minutes as they ought to. Ignoring Sherlock’s small smile of pride, John turned them and gave them the remaining time. They went onto prepared kitchen paper, Sherlock standing on the right side of John to put them there, and the next five came in.

Ehm…do you smell burning?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but his eyes widened and he swung an arm out to push the pan with the milk off the heat. He managed it, but there was something in the way.

“Sherlock! No, Sherl- FUCK!” John jumped out of the way in time not to get the warm oil all the way down his front but as it was, he still got it all over his left hand.

He cursed quite inventively but somehow managed to have enough of his wits about him to immediately walk over to the sink, turn on the water and stick his entire hand under it.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

“John?” The voice was rather wavering and uncertain.

“I’m fine, Sherlock, don’t move. Don’t step into the oil.”

“I _can_ step around it, though,” the brunette countered and did just that, “and you are obviously not fine. You’re making pained expression.”

“Of course I am, I just got burned by oil heated to almost two hundred degrees, fucking hell – right over my dominant hand, too, that just bloody figures. Ow. Could you get the burn cream? It should be here somewhere.”

Sherlock didn’t answer and instead of steps moving away, they moved closer and John found himself having a detective plastered across his back.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting your watch off for you.”

“I can do that myself.”

“Not with soaked hands and it’s important to get it off straight away.” As he spoke, Sherlock slipped the watch over and off John’s wrist, making the blonde grimace.

 “So is mopping up the oil. Mrs. Hudson is going to have a fit when she sees the floor. Bloody buggering Christ on a slingshot, why doesn’t it let up?”

“Patience, John.”

“That’s bloody rich coming from you, Sherlock.”

They were silent for a while afterwards. Then Sherlock peeled himself off, put the watch down on the worktop, pulled out a few tea towels and dropped them on the oil that had spilled onto the floor and went out of the room, presumably to look for their first aid kit with the dressing and the burn cream.

When he returned, John had turned off the water and was sitting at the table cradling his hand, which was an angry red.

He looked up, pain hardening his face slightly, to find Sherlock looking at him with a panicked expression, like a child that has caused a situation it doesn’t know how to fix but desperately wants to, anyway.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said, trying his best to give a genuine smile. “It’s worse than it looks, really it is. Bit of burn cream and a dressing and I’ll be right as rain, I promise.”

“Oil burns are not a laughing matter. Should…should I call a cab?”

“A cab? What do we need a cab for?”

“Going on the tube all the way to the A&E is not the best of ideas!”

John frowned. “You’re not – Sherlock, I’m a qualified doctor. I went to war. I think I can manage an oil burn.” He gave another wince as his hands throbbed. “That said, I might need your help dressing this one, though. Christ – and the whole bake is ruined now, too.”

“Don’t worry about that now.” Sherlock’s voice was oddly gentle and his movements were likewise, applying the burn cream with utmost care after very carefully dabbing the hand clean. John tried to help but was rebuffed at every turn. He couldn’t even get eye contact. All he could sit and do then was be still and try not to be affected by the pain or by the bony hands touching him.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Finally, the brunette looked up at him, brow knitted. I would normally welcome your apology, but what are you sorry for?”

“For ruining your bake. It was going so well and – “

“I said, don’t worry about that. In any case, it’s my fault, not yours.”

John was sure his ears must have clogged. “Excuse me?”

The dressing was finished and tightened, possibly a bit more forcefully than was strictly necessary. “You heard me perfectly well. As for what you promised Mrs. Hudson...” He turned his head, thinking. “I’ll think of something.”

“No more oil, though.”

Sherlock turned back to look at his friend. “No more oil. I promise.”

It was only when the taller man stood up and went to clean up the mess around the stove that John became aware his injured hand had been carefully cradled in two larger hands up until then.

He had to swallow quite heavily.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock, no. If you’re thinking of making what I think you are, then don’t. Please.”

The floor had been mopped, both pans with ruined warm liquids in them had been put in the sink and Sherlock had whipped up another batter after discarding what remained of the choux pastry.

“It’s not a problem, John. I’ve got a steady hand.”

“That’s not the point. Look, I’m sure that if we tell her that it went a bit wrong, then – “

Shut up and hand me that bottle. It’s in the cupboard just beside you.”

John looked. “That’s the bottle you use for different solutions. We’re not putting batter in that.”

“I put salt water in that, there’s nothing harmful in salt water. Anyway, it’s the spare one. Now give it here.”

With difficulty, John handed it over and watched glumly as his flatmate poured the pancake batter into it, screwed the lid back on and started to press it out on the pan. It came out in a steady stream, not too thick and not too thin and when he turned it a bit later, it flipped easily.

John couldn’t see the pattern Sherlock was doing freehand but he did indeed have the steady hand he claimed to, just as with the piping of the icing, and soon there were two plates with a small stack of lace pancakes on each.

“I can see why you didn’t want to make that one now,” the doctor joked, knowing it was weak. Sherlock, still bent over the pan, merely hummed and carried on.

It was only when both stacks were done and Sherlock were running out the door, one plate in hand, to deliver them to their landlady that John got a chance to look at the design his friend had decided to freestyle.

He had to swallow again. They were undoubtedly on level with the best efforts of the amateur bakers that week. What was more, they were all the same shape; a beautifully shaped heart, none of them burned. He spotted the churros they’d managed to cook and noticed their shape properly, too.

He felt like he had to sit down again, the room suddenly spinning slightly.

They were hearts, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the reason there is no recipe today. Should I tag the burn so that it doesn't trigger anyone? I don't think it's horrible but then I don't know what might trigger something.  
> We'll get somewhere soon, I promise. Thank you for sticking with it :D


	5. Pastry Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the mishap, John feels uncertain about a lot of things, but one thing he is absolutely certain of is that they won't be baking. Sherlock, however, proves him wrong on more than one level

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a bit longer to get out than the other chapters :)  
> Recipe is right here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/marys_bakewell_tart_12584

John struggled through the next few days. It wasn’t just his hand that caused him problems, though that was admittedly quite a big factor. It was also the fact that he couldn’t quite let go of the revelation that his asexual, sentiment-despising flatmate had made bakes in the shape of hearts. Not once, but two times.

Granted, one of them could be argued to just be because that was the shape that the contestants had been required to make but on the other hand, doing it purely because that was what the instructions said didn’t sound much like Sherlock Holmes.

Whatever the score was on that, it didn’t alter the fact that he’d done it more than the one time and that the churros had been made before the pancakes. Then on top of all that, the man had managed to block John’s view of his piping so that he couldn’t see the shape.

But again, any such behaviour had stopped the moment they had finished baking and cleaning up. Well, not quite, but there hadn’t been any acknowledgement of the fact that he’d chosen that particular shape, not even when they’d eaten them.

All of it added up to one very confused John Watson.

“I mean, if he bloody well could be bothered to be at least the tiniest bit _consistent_ , that would be bloody swell, but no, of course – yeah, hi, Sarah.”

“Hi, John. This is a bit unexpected – you alright?”

“Well, actually…not really, no.”

“Don’t tell me you’re calling in sick.”

“Not sick, as such, but…” He paused. “Well, there was a bit of an accident with some oil…”

“Oh, god. Don’t tell me anymore.” Despite her protests, there was a muffled, short-lived giggle.

“Sarah!” John was chuckling a bit himself, though. “No, we were baking churros and I spilled hot oil all over my hand.”

He paused to give her time for an exclamation. “It’s alright. Did everything as I’m supposed to, I know how to do it. But it…well…”

“Yes, yes, of course. I can get Lynne to cover, you know Lynne, she’s always such a sweetheart…”

“Sarah, I’m honestly sorry, and I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

The smile was audible in her voice. “I know you will, John. Call me when you’re ready to take shifts again, yeah?” She paused. “Don’t let him boss you around too much, will you? You need rest for that hand.”

_You’re asking me not to let the wind blow or the river flow_ , he thought after they’d hung up. _He’s a whirlwind at the best of times. I can only hope that the worst I’ll have to put up with is his tantrums and not a proper case._

 

* * *

 

There was a case the very next day, on the Monday. What was odd was that though Sherlock did take it and John was home, he was not asked to come along. Not that Sherlock left him out of it, as such; he was asked for his professional opinion more than once but it was from crime scene photos Sherlock had been given. He was not allowed to participate in anything remotely action-oriented.

It only puzzled him further.

“It doesn’t require that much hands-on, really,” was all the answer he got when he pressed his friend about it. “Somewhat dull, to be honest. Not completely, but I’ll have it solved by the evening.”

“Why did you take the case, then, if it’s not that interesting?”

“Something to do, mainly. Though now that I’ve said yes, I’m regretting it immensely.”

“What, boredom is preferable?”

Sherlock looked as though his thoughts were starting to wander off. “No, but I could be employing my time better. There’s a few recipes of Mary Berry’s I’d like to experiment a bit with.”

He wandered off after that, a leftover pancake in his hand.

_Will wonders never cease?_ John thought. _He actually remembered her name and everything._

 

* * *

 

Wednesday rolled around and John’s hand wasn’t faring much better, really. It didn’t burn under the skin anymore but it was still very much burned and as such, he couldn’t do much.

He’d managed to go down the shops that day and had even brought home a few groceries. It wasn’t the by that point kinda customary spread but it would have to do.

He settled in a bit earlier than usual, with a ready meal easy to eat with one hand, intending to just watch something mindless until it was time for the Bake Off. He didn’t get much of a chance to, however.

Instead he got Sherlock bursting in the front door, also laden down with what appeared to be shopping bags. He looked around, spotted John on the sofa with his dinner, then frowned.

“What are you doing?”

“Eating dinner?” John replied, trying not to sound as though he’d been caught out doing something he shouldn’t. He hadn’t but it felt like he had. “Why, what’s happened?”

“Nothing. But you shouldn’t be doing that.”

“We can’t all live off nutrients sifted from the air, Sherlock. Or purely on sugar, either.”

The brunette snorted and marched over, bringing the bags with him. He put them down on the table, pulled out a variety of sandwiches which he then swiftly opened and meaningfully put them down in front of John.

“Ehm…I’ve got dinner already, Sherlock, thanks for the thought.”

That wasn’t true for long, though. His bangers and mash was promptly taken and put out of immediate reach.

“Hey! I was eating that!”

“It’s hardly a good idea to eat something that’s been heated when you’ve been burned once.”

John was trying and failing not to get annoyed. “Look, one accident doesn’t suddenly turn me into a complete and utter klutz. I can eat a hot meal one-handed.”

He glared at Sherlock who stared back, perfectly calm. There was one thing, though; that spark of warmth in the depth of pale eyes that he’d seen when Sherlock had dressed his hand – had in fact seen quite a few times since they’d started baking together.

“Oh, alright, _fine_ ,” John sighed, capitulating. _So much for not letting him boss me around. Though given who we’re talking about, it could certainly be worse._

He was rewarded by a big smile and Sherlock snuggling down beside him. It couldn’t be called anything else but snuggling, the way he practically burrowed into the sofa and John’s side. His gaze was fixed firmly on the television screen, however.

“I fucking well give up,” John mumbled under his breath. If the detective heard, he didn’t show it.

A few minutes later the program started and as the cold open rolled, John remembered that it was Pastry Week. With a slightly sinking heart, he saw that the signature challenge was going to be a Danish pastry dough that should have twenty-seven layers, each carefully rolled out and the butter could not be allowed a chance to leak out.

He took half of a triangle sandwich, vaguely noting that it was Cumberland sausage, and bit into it. It was good and what was more, it was fresh. That was more than could be said for what he had been eating.

He munched on it with relish, or rather some brown sauce, while dividing his attention between watching the bakers struggle with rolling and folding and trying not to crack under the intense stares of Hollywood and Berry, a feeling with which John was only too familiar, and watching his flatmate out of the corner of his eye.

After a while, he decided to test the waters a bit and press back against the weight leaning on him. What he got wasn’t Sherlock realizing what he was doing and moving away, as he’d half expected and worried. Instead there was an odd little noise of, to the best of John’s hearing abilities, sounded like pleased contentment.

_If I find out this has all been for some experiment to see how much touching you can heap on a believed-to-be hetero-sexual British male before he goes spare or round the bend, I’m going to ruddy well strangle him with his own violin strings._

 

* * *

 

“Are we making Danish pastries, then?”

They were watching the judging of the signature challenges, or rather, the put down of pretty much every single contestant’s efforts, though John did notice that Berry made a valiant effort to find something positive to say about each baker, too – and that Jane got almost purely positive feedback on hers.

Sherlock shook his head immediately. “Not this week.”

“They’ll move onto something else next week, you know.” He got a withering glace for his trouble. “Just saying, that’s all.”

“Your propensity for stating the blindingly obvious is mind boggling, I have to say,” the detective drawled. “We are not limited to only baking what the program decides to promote or when it’s on.”

_I thought that was part of the bet, but hey, I’m not going to argue. “_ Of course we’re not, you’ve proved that a few times. I just wanted to be a tiny bit prepared, really.”

“Mmh.”

That was all he got by way of reply. John shrugged but only mentally so that he wouldn’t jostle…anything.

The technical challenge was a Bakewell tart which once again seemed strangely simple for such a challenge, that was, until he saw all the parts that had to go in there. Then he understood the challenge, with its time limit, perfectly well.

Absentmindedly, with a half-eaten sandwich in his right hand, he reached for his mug of tea with his left. His fingers had just about reached their destination when long fingers closed around his wrist and prevented him from closing the gap. Pain flared up from where the oil had splashed onto skin that was now being squeezed. He pulled a bit, nevertheless, but the grip held firm.

“Let go, Sherlock.”

“No.”

“I want my tea.”

“No.”

“Sherlock!”

Pale eyes were narrowed and the free hand reached out, grabbed the mug of tea and brought it up to John’s lips. The doctor didn’t drink immediately, even though the mug was tilted for him to do so.

“Sherlock, stop. It’s very sweet and all and I appreciate it, I really do but I don’t need you to nurse me like this.” The mug pressed against his lips with every spoken word. “I can hold a mug for the time a long swallow of tea takes.”

“Not with a burned hand, you can’t. You should be more careful of it.”

“It’s an oil burn, not the damn plague or a case of leprosy. I’m not completely invalided.” Secretly, though, he was kind of enjoying the attention that he was unexpectedly getting, even if it was also making him even more confused about the mixed signals.

Something flickered in the depths of Sherlock’s eyes. “Nevertheless, it is quite idiotic to possibly exacerbate the matter by not letting it rest.”

“Oh, alright, _fine._ ” John opened mouth and took a swallow of the tea. “Thank you. Now, can we go back to watching the Bake Off? Otherwise we’ll miss the technical challenge completely.”

“Hardly.” Despite his words, Sherlock put the mug back then quickly settled back down pressed up against his flatmate.

As they continued to watch the show, it became clearer and clearer that Candice was not used to getting critique but craved the praise, like a little school girl. Sadly, that the one leaving the Bake Off that week was going to be Val was also indisputable, with all three of her bakes being disasters to varying degrees.

When the program finished, John expected to be left to clean up the table as well as left in the dark about what they would be baking the upcoming Saturday. But though the latter was true, Sherlock didn’t just disappear into his bedroom when the credits began to roll. Instead he gave John a stern look and started clearing away. He even remembered to rinse the mugs out.

Then he did disappear into his bedroom but not before taking time out to help John peel off his dressing, assess it, put some more burn cream on the still reddened areas and then redress it.

Even when he was alone in the living room, John couldn’t help the smile on his face. He’d had the same care from Sherlock _after_ the show had ended as he had during.

It might mean nothing at all but even so, he was feeling somewhat hopeful and most decidedly happy.

 

* * *

 

They ended up not having discussed what bake they would go for when they reached Saturday. Truth be told, John didn’t truly think that they would be baking that week. Sherlock had made no mention of it and he had not been anywhere near the shops, as far as the doctor knew.

It would be alright, though. Just because they weren’t baking one week didn’t mean they wouldn’t bake the week after and in any case, he would have to come to terms with the fact that when the Bake Off came to end, so did the bet they had and the weeks baking together. it would be more a stay of execution than anything else and it would be very stupid not to be mentally prepared.

He woke up and trudged down the stairs early that morning, mostly because he’d heard Sherlock’s voice drifting up and he was curious as to what had prompted the detective’s animated, yet curt talking.

“That may be so,” Sherlock said into his phone as John joined him in the living room, “and I know full well that you are, as usual, out of your depths on this, Lestrade, but the fact of the matter is that I am not available to come and look at your crime scene. No, it doesn’t matter if you send a car or give us another hour to get there. I am _busy_.”

With that, he hung up. “Morning, John,” he said as he turned around to face his flatmate.

“Morning, Sherlock. You’re up early.”

“Got a few things to sort and then Lestrade called.”

John, walking into the kitchen, tried to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping. “Oh? What’s he got for us this time?”

“Dead woman with her hands and feet cut off, most of her teeth removed and both her eyes plucked out.”

The doctor had to swallow at that. _The poor woman_. “I think breakfast might just be toast today. Where is she?”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t listening in, John. You know I said no.”

John didn’t feel like arguing a meaningless point. “So why did you turn him down?” he asked as he put the kettle on and fished out bread and jam. “You’ve been wanting a case all week and this one sounds interesting.”

“I’m busy.”

“You said but if not with a case, what with?”

Sherlock fixed him with the patented ‘are you honestly that much of an idiot?’ stare for a moment. Then he sighed and moved to stand beside his friend. “It’s Saturday, John.”

“I know you think me stupid sometimes but I’m not daft enough to lose track of the days of the week, Sherlock.”

“We bake on Saturday.” Pale eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out of it now.”

“What? No!” John tried to control the force of his outburst but didn’t quite manage it. “No, it’s not that at all. I just thought…well, what with me and my hand here and everything, I’m not really in much shape for anything like baking and especially not complex stuff like puff pastry of any kind. So, since we bake together,” and that was still such a sweet-sounding thing, “I thought that we’d postpone it until I was able to join in.”

The scrutinizing gaze was on him. John held his ground. Then Sherlock smiled. “Not too shabby a plan.”

“Let me guess – you have a better one?”

“Of course I do, John. A much better one, in fact.”

“And that is?”

“We’ll bake together today and you can help with whatever can be done one-handed.”

“Oh, yes, smashing plan that is. Downright brilliant, really.” John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Which bake were you thinking of, then?”

“Bakewell tart.”

“Well, you would.”

Sherlock huffed. “It’s the easiest to do out of the three bakes.”

“True, but that’s like saying burning is a better way of dying than drowning.”

“Don’t mention burning right now.” An oddly pained expression flitted across the brunette’s face.

“Okay…fair enough. Have you got a recipe for us to use, then?”

“The one from the Bake Off seemed fairly straightforward, as far as the more complex recipes go, so I thought we would go with that one.”

“Alright, fair. What’s first in that, then?”

“You should eat your breakfast first and we need to get your dressing on again as well.”

“Good point,” John conceded. He put jam on a couple of slices of bread and took a large bite. “It’s been a week, though. Keeping it wrapped up in a dressing is not necessarily a good thing anymore.” He’d left it off the entire night for that very reason.

“But if we’re baking, it’d be better to have it dressed so that nothing gets in there.” Sherlock snatched a slice of bread with jam on and took a bite. “If you don’t manage to waste all our jam on your breakfast, we can use it for the bottom.”

“If you wouldn’t steal my breakfast, perhaps I wouldn’t need to ‘waste it’ so, you plonker. Besides, weren’t we supposed to use freshly made jam?”

“If you’re doing a bake for a competition, perhaps. We, on the other hand, are baking merely for our own sake and with something of a handicap. Raspberry jam out of a jar works fine.”

“If you say so.” John ate the last slice and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His left hand was grabbed and applied cream to before he knew it.

This time he didn’t say anything. He’d decided to enjoy every bit of care and consideration that he’d get during this baking lark.

As they started putting out what they’d need, something occurred to him. Sherlock had turned down a case. A real case from the police that was not only a murder but what seemed like a rather interesting one as well. He’d turned it down quite emphatically and for what reason? That he would be busy and busy with _baking_ , of all things.

He didn’t know what precisely to make of that but there was no question that it was significant somehow. That didn’t mean he was going to show that he knew.

“So…we’re not making the jam. That leaves the shortcrust pastry, the filling and the icing to do.”

“Don’t worry about the icing right now.”

“So, I can worry about the filling and the pastry to my heart’s content, then? Cheers.”

Sherlock wasn’t affected by the slightly acidic tone. “If you take care of the filling, I’ll do the pastry. It should be feasible to do the filling with just one hand.”

He helped John roll up his sleeves then rolled up his own. The pasty needs to be baked first, though.” He put the flour and butter into one of the two bowls he’d brought out and started rubbing it together for the breadcrumb texture. “Could you pour in the icing sugar for me?”

John did so. “What, the great Sherlock Holmes can’t do both?” he asked, grinning.

“Yes, but the clumsy John Watson shouldn’t feel left out of half the bake, should he?”

“Oi! You were the one who reached over me for the pot. I don’t see how I’m to be called clumsy when I had no part in it apart from being in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

Despite his grumbles, John had cracked the egg and added it to what Sherlock was making. He then added the two tablespoons of water, which helped the detective form the mixture into a soft dough.

“You’ve forgotten to get your watch off.”

Sherlock merely huffed. “Could you remove the bowl for me?” As soon as he had his space, he dusted it with some flour.

“Hang on, you need the rolling pin.”

“I was just getting there.”

“Of course you were. You roll that out, I’ll find the tin.”

“Right, in the tin it goes.” John reached for it but his hands were batted away by bony, crust-caked hands. The shortcrust went into the tin and then into the fridge.

“How long do we wait for this time, then?”

John checked the recipe. “Half an hour. Good thing we started early, then, innit?”

“What should we do in the meantime?”

John almost choked. _I could think of a thing or two, certainly. “_ You’re the one with the massive brain, you think of something,” was what he said out loud.

“Hm.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, they filled the thirty minutes with making the filling together as well, Sherlock hovering just behind John who was trying desperately not to let the effect it had on him show. He failed once again, the evidence of which pressing against the unit in front of him.

 

* * *

 

“Stop!”

“I notice you’re always telling me to stop something at some point when we do this, John.”

“That’s because you’re just steaming ahead without regard for the recipe – or common sense, most of the time.”

Sherlock had paused, just a hair’s breadth from tipping the filling into the pastry-lined tin.

The doctor sighed. “We’re blind baking this one.”

He got a frown of incomprehension for his trouble and he sighed again. Blind baking means you bake the pastry first, with a sheet of baking parchment on top and some beans or the like to weigh the parchment down. Weren’t you paying attention during the show?”

“Half of them are idiots that shouldn’t be trusted for method,” Sherlock huffed. There was a bit of colour spreading high on those cheekbones, though.

He put the bowl down and they filled the tin with parchment and some beans that had been there since the previous tenant.

It went into the oven, came out after a quarter of an hour, had the beans removed and had another five minutes.

“Does that look dried out in a good way or in a bad way?”

“Why are you always asking me, John? Can’t you see? We can get a prescription for you, if you like.”

They put the jam in and then the filling. “I’ll get glasses when you do, beanpole. Good grief, I look old enough with these furrows in my face. If I get glasses, all I’d need is a bloody slipover in queasy colours and a bowtie.”

Sherlock reduced the heat of the oven and put the tart in. “I don’t think there’s that big of a difference between the slipovers you describe and the monstrosities you call jumpers.” He straightened up and turned to his flatmate, a bright yet soft smile on his face. “Besides, I think you could look quite debonair in a proper pair of glasses. Square and dark, preferably.”

John couldn’t help it; he stared. Quite frankly, he actually gaped. Had he heard that right? An outright compliment on his appearance offered up just like that, with no apparent ulterior motive, and they weren’t on a case?

“Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock merely laughed softly, the sound reawakening the fluttering in John’s stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

“No soggy bottom.”

“You remembered that but not the blind baking? Does your Mind Palace come with a patchy driveway or something?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he took a bite and his eyes genuinely fluttered closed. “Mmh. That’s good.”

“Well, you would say that, given that you’ve done all of it yourself.” John speared a bit of his slice on his fork.

“My own involvement is quite immaterial, as you know from the previous bakes and besides, that’s hardly fair. It’s been a team effort.” There was silence. “Go on, then. Have a bit. It won’t kill you.”

“‘Death by Bakewell Tart’? No, can’t really see that selling. Although it could be an Agatha Raisin story.”

“Why you insist on reading those hackney whodunnits is completely beyond me.”

“It’s just a bit of harmless fun, Sherlock. Seeing how much easier it is to solve a mystery when the writer has got everything worked out beforehand.”

“Eat, John.”

John conceded and popped the piece into his mouth. “Oh. Yeah, okay. Yeah, I see what you mean. That’s a bit of alright, isn’t it? Well done, you.”

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and touched the doctor’s knee firmly. He smiled that soft smile again. “No. Well done, us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are moving forward! I know John's a bit dense but he's getting there and it gave me an excuse to write sweet Sherlock which I love. I still love making this in general :D


	6. Citrus Meringue Pie for Botanical Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to evaluate just what's happened in the past five weeks and just what that means. The conclusion he comes to makes him be a bit braver. Will he be rewarded for his bravery?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hasn't been forgotten at all, this, and I thank all the kind people who has taken the time to leave me lovely feedback.  
> We are now ahead of what's posted on Tumblr. :)
> 
> Oh, right, almost forgot - Recipe for the day: http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/marys_lemon_meringue_pie_02330

So…what did all this behaviour add up to?

That was the question that John mulled over the next few days. It wasn’t a question easily answered, though, by the simple fact of who was the cause of the question.

On the one hand, there were several different things that had been done which fell decidedly outside the norm. It wasn’t just the fact that they were baking together or even that Sherlock had decided baking programmes couldn’t be watched without being plastered up against a poor army doctor. It was the amount of seemingly unintentional touches, the accidental almost-kiss and the patience that doesn’t normally exist outside running experiments.

On the other, however, none of it had happened until they had started baking and that had only started because of a bet, hadn’t it? Furthermore, the things that had changed had stayed very firmly confined to the times connected in some way with baking.

The trouble with that was that it meant it could as well be the brunette performing some form of experiment on his flatmate. He had no real idea what that experiment would be but then he wasn’t the genius in the house, was he?

But then that past week had happened. That past week which had included not only Sherlock being mindful of John in general, but mindful and caring of his hand and what he could manage, going so far as to choose a bake that they could make with only three functioning hands between them.

As if that wasn’t enough, the downright impossible had happened; Sherlock had turned down a case. A case that was _interesting,_ which he would normally have jumped at, he had turned down and turned down quite emphatically and for what? A day spent together with John, baking.

He hadn’t even called Lestrade back when they’d finished baking to say that he was available then. instead he’d stayed with John, trying their bake and fussing around to make sure that baking hadn’t worsened the few blisters that had appeared on his hand.

Despite that, and it was quite a major that, especially given it was Sherlock, John was still a bit reluctant to think of it as definitive indication. He knew he was being overly cautious and suspicious but he couldn’t really help it.

The thing that had definitively pushed it over into the territory of ‘intentional and genuine’ in the doctor’s mind was the combination of the consideration and care with the fact that he had made heart-shaped bakes not once, but twice. One or the other on its own he wouldn’t dare call it but in combination, he felt like he could nourish a tentative hope.

His resolve was strengthened by the fact that the care to his hand continued well after there was no real need for it. There was no other indication but there didn’t need to be.

 

* * *

 

Wednesday was a quiet day at the surgery but John still came home late, just twenty minutes to the start of the show, due to a few incidents on the tube, to find the coffee table cleared and stocked with not only the by then customary selection but with a few bits and pieces that looked decidedly homemade. Homemade but quite a far cry from the misshapen lumps supposed to be scones from a few weeks previous.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, looking quite nonchalant as he toyed with his violin but his eyes honed in on John the moment he was through the door, then followed his gaze to the coffee table before returning to stare at the doctor.

“When will you learn that taking the tube home when it’s pouring down will only add approximately 18 minutes to your journey?” he asked by way of greeting. He made no comment on the things he’d obviously made which John found a bit odd, given his normal tendencies.

It didn’t take a genius to work out the brunette had thought he wouldn’t make it in time.

“Pouring down is the status quo of the British weather, Sherlock, and I’m hardly going to walk the whole way when it’s bucketing, am I?”

“You’ve got a reasonably durable coat.”

John shrugged off said coat which was dripping water onto the floor. ‘Reasonably durable’ was apparently a way of saying ‘not really capable of withstanding the heavens opening’.

“I’ve also got shoes with a crack in the soles that I only found out about this morning when I stepped in a puddle.” He toed off said shoes and made straight for the sofa. “So, you can perhaps see why I wasn’t all too keen on walking the entire way back home, overcrowded tube or not. Now, as much as I enjoy it when you decide to _play_ your violin, I’d rather watch the Bake Off with you.”

He smiled warmly. “Come on. It’s about to start. You made all the preparations, you can’t really back out now.”

The lanky body practically propelled itself out of the chair, stopped briefly to deposit the instrument and then moved quickly over to the sofa, almost falling onto it. “I had no intention to,” he said softly, smiling.

“Right.” John smiled back. “It’s…what is it this week? I forget.”

The answer came promptly. “Botanical week.”

“Ah. That might explain why I didn’t remember. Sounds like a girl’s tea party, serving her dollies ‘cakes’ that are bunches of plucked dandelions.”

“Good to see you’ve got no preconceptions.”

“All I’m saying is that I am not baking anything that’s mainly petals.”

“Guess my plan for sprinkling rose petals all over a wedding cake is out the window, then.”

John made a sound between a choke and a laugh. “Like we’d ever be able to eat that, never mind bake it.”

“Who said we’d eat it on our own?”

_Don’t go there, Sherlock. Don’t go getting my hopes up for something that’s never going to happen. “_ People will talk if we ask them to help out with eating the remains of a wedding cake. Everyone knows what a traditional wedding cake tastes like.”

“People do little else.” With that, Sherlock tilted sideways until he was in his customary place snuggled up against John’s side and turned on the TV. “Now you’ve made us miss the intro.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” John knew better than to point out that nothing important was said during the cold open; when Sherlock had decided that something was worthy of his attention, he gave it completely.

“It’s alright. I’ve asked Mrs. Hudson to tape it for us.”

_Why all the blooming fuss about us missing the show, then?_ the doctor groused internally though he thought he might know the reason.

As the talk about the signature challenge, a citrus meringue pie, started up, John settled himself in a little bit better. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, though, his eyes fixed on the screen. You could almost hear him take mental notes, though it didn’t mean he’d settled on that bake.

“Hang on, Italian meringue? French? I thought meringue was meringue. What’s the difference?”

“For those two? What the consistency of the sugar added is. For French, it’s granulated sugar and for Italian, it’s sugar syrup. As for the Swiss that she – “

“That’s Jane.”

“That _she_ is making, that is a French meringue done over a ban marie, a water bath. Well, more or less that.”

“Well, ta for assuming I don’t know what a ban marie is, plonker. We, no, _I_ used the ban marie on our very first bake together, if you remember. Actually, as I recall, you were the one who wanted to melt the chocolate in the microwave oven.”

“Live and learn, John.”

“Funny how you always say stuff like that when you’re the one in the wrong.”

“Mmh,” Sherlock said noncommittally. “Go back to drooling over that lipstick-woman and pretending it’s over the cakes.”

“It is over the cakes. Some of those look downright amazing. She’s really not my type.” There was a snort. “She’s not!”

Sherlock looked up from his position snuggled against John’s side. “True,” he conceded, smiling a smile that made John’s stomach do an odd but pleasant tumble. “You’ve gotten far better taste in the time I’ve known you.”

“Thanks. I suppose you’ll be taking credit for that one as well, then?” John said with an answering smile, trying to ignore his suddenly thumping heart.

The smile only widened. “Of course.”

“Right.”

There was a pause as they just sat looking at each other.

A noise from the TV broke the moment.

“Do you…do you want to watch the judging of the pies?” John knew his voice was shaking ever so slightly.

Sherlock nodded, the bobbing coming quickly.

* * *

 

John couldn’t help smiling when Tom got first place in the technical challenge.

 

* * *

 

 

“I knew it. I bloody well knew it.”

“Not exactly a hard-won deduction.”

“Oh, shut up, Sherlock. We are not doing a three-tiered cake of any sort, let alone with blooming flowers on or in it.”

“Interesting choice of word. What, scared you can’t pull it off?”

John hesitated but not because he was unsure of whether he could do a tiered cake or not. He was fairly certain that he could, even if it wasn’t exactly up to snuff. What he was contemplating instead was a thought he’d toyed with all evening; to snake his arm out and rest the elbow on the back of the sofa in a way that would effectively put his arm around Sherlock without touching him.

The risk was minimal, really, when he thought about it. If the detective noticed, it could be chalked up to just happening to rest his arm there and besides, Sherlock was hardly in a position to complained, practically snuggled up against the shorter man as he was.

So why was John hesitating?

_You’re scared of the next step that’s going to come if this goes right_ , an inner voice told him. _Nothing fancy about it, you’re just scared because if you muck it up, you might end up losing your best friend._

But he was given, for Sherlock, some rather major signals that advances wouldn’t be turned down, wasn’t he? Was he?

_Not that, idiot. How many girlfriends have you had that have clearly wanted you as a romantic partner only for that to go south? And they were not infuriating, mercurial, insecure, brilliant, gorgeous madmen who’d probably never had a romantic partner in his life._

He realized he still hadn’t answered the question but he had thankfully not paused long enough to rouse suspicion.

Stretching a bit in an attempt to make the arm movement seem somewhat more natural, he answered, “No more scared than you – and no, that doesn’t mean it’s another bet. We’re not baking that. If nothing else, we haven’t got the tools or the materials.” His arm had landed exactly where he wanted it to.

“That can be arranged.”

“No. Just please, no.” He briefly considered pleading that his hand was not healed enough but knew that wouldn’t really go over too well. “Look, if you really want to do a showstopper, and I can understand why you’d want to, we’ll do the next one, yeah?”

“The next two.”

“I’m not going to argue with you like you’re a kid begging for another go on the dodgems, Sherlock.”

“Dodgems are boring.”

“Sherlock.”

“The next two.”

“Oh, alright, _fine._ The next two are going to be the showstoppers – “ he held up a finger “ – providing, no, listen, _providing_ that they don’t go absolutely nuts with the brief. They are getting progressively more difficult.”

“That’s rather the point, John. In any case, they’re not the only ones who have advanced, are they?”

John smiled. “True,” he conceded.

His smile broadened when Sherlock settled back against him, the wiggling pushing at the back cushion enough for John’s arm to slip further and land firmly across the detective’s back instead of just hovering just around it. There was no indication of discomfort. If John was to call it, he would actually say it was quite the opposite.

_Another tick in the ‘intentional and genuine’ box, I should think._

* * *

 

 

“No way.”

“John, you’re being ridiculous.”

They were standing in a somewhat crowded supermarket Saturday morning.

“It’s not being ridiculous not wanting to ruin an otherwise possibly good bake with a taste that brings bake some rather unpleasant memories.”

“They were a bit off, that was all.”

“’Orange with fingers’ is not something that can be described merely as a bit off. We are not using oranges and we are not arguing here!”

“You’re the one who’s raising his voice in the middle of the fruit and veg, not me.”

“No, but you’re the one who insisted on coming with me, only to hover behind me like some stupid scarecrow and put things in the trolley we don’t need.”

“Having a bit of a domestic, are you?” came a sweet voice from behind them. They turned to find a smallish middle-aged-going-on-old woman with a hairdo more commonly seen in the eighties and clothing more suited for a young woman smiling at them.

“None of your business,” Sherlock snapped.

The woman’s smile wavered slightly at the brusqueness but she persevered. “I’m so sorry, too nosy for my own good, I know. My husband’s always telling me, ‘Bez’, he says…oh, listen to me prattling on.” She fiddled with her earring. “All I wanted to say was it’s so sweet to see two young people comfortable enough with each other to have a small, boring row in the supermarket over trivialities – just like the rest of us.”

With that, she turned and headed back to her equally smallish husband, complete with sensible jumpers and glasses.

“The thought of being ‘just like’ her is quite frankly appalling,” Sherlock commented, his face and subsequently voice very close to John’s. “The most interesting thing about her is the fact that she’s involved with not one but two of her bosses, both significantly younger than her.”

“Does the husband know?” John couldn’t help asking.

“Only about one of them. He feels proud of her.”

_In a strange way, I get why. “_ Each to their own.”

“Still doesn’t give her the right to interfere where she isn’t wanted.”

“She was just attempting to diffuse an apparent situation, Sherlock.”

The brunette snorted. “She was being nosy and attempting to boost her own confidence by assuring herself that what she does is what everyone else does.”

We were arguing, you have to grant her that and it’s not the best place to – oi, don’t just try to sneak the oranges in when I’m distracted.”

“Fine. We’ll let your irrational, sudden aversion to oranges be this time. What else do you suggest, then? Lime and coconut?” The suggestion had a sharp tinge to it.

“Oh, come off it.” If he didn’t know better, John might suspect a tiny slip of jealousy. Whatever the case, he couldn’t help smiling. I wasn’t thinking of copying any of the pies in there, actually.”

“Oh? What, then?”

“What, you can’t guess it?”

“I cannot pull deductions out of thin air. That’s guesswork. I don’t deal in guesswork.”

“I thought we could use some mangos,” John suggested, reaching for the fruit as he spoke. “If we’re going to make a citrus meringue pie, we need to make a curd and…well, I happen to like mango. We could puree it.”

“We could still make a three-tier sunflower cake.”

“We could but,” and John’s smile turned into something of a smirk, “either you’re eating all of it yourself or you’re going around the Yard with the leftovers.”

“Mango meringue pie it is.”

 

“Okay, which recipe have you deemed worthy of your time for this one, then? Another Berry one?”

“No.”

John got out the pie tin with the loose base they’d also ended up picking up while out shopping. The argument had been that it would be much easier to get the pie out of such a tin instead of a regular one.

“Fair enough. Might be good to use someone else’s recipe for a change. Who, then?”

“No one. We’re not following a specific recipe.”

“What?” John stopped his rummage through the fridge for the eggs, having pushed aside a few experiments that had thankfully been put in jars this time, to look up at his friend with a frown. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“We’ve made shortcrust pastry before.”

“We haven’t made curd before. We haven’t made meringue before. Both are things that can be mucked very easily. Look, do you _want_ this one to go wrong? Is that it?”

“What? No!” Sherlock looked hurt as well as indignant. “Of course not!”

“Oh, really? Cause it sure sounds like it – or is the great Sherlock Holmes arrogant enough to think that once he’s had a few passable bakes he can just freestyle everything?”

“It’s not freestyling.”

“Really? What is it, then?”

The doctor could feel his annoyance building. This was supposed to be something they did together, something that they put time and effort into and all of a sudden, Sherlock had decided to be cavalier and laissez-faire about it; about a thing where he’d previously lavished attention and care, not just on the bake but on John, too.

The implications of the new attitude weren’t something the blonde liked at all.

“I was going to find separate recipes for each one!”

“You what?”

Pale eyes skittered around, not meeting John’s, and of all things, Sherlock bit the inside of his lip ever so slightly. “I…I don’t want us to fail baking. I want to make a perfect pie.” He met John’s gaze. “But I couldn’t find one that was with mango at all so I thought that maybe if we took the shortcrust we knew worked and then got good separate recipes on the curd and the meringue, we could be far more certain of a good bake!”

That made John pause. “You’re…you’re not just backpedalling, are you? Not just trying to placate me?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he said, emphatic.

That was…incredibly sweet and suddenly the doctor felt an idiot. Right…okay, right. That…makes sense, a whole lot of sense. Thank you.” He reached out and grabbed a bony hand, squeezing it.

“Thank you,” he repeated, smiling up at the other.

Sherlock, however, was looking at their hands. There was a visible swallow.

“Sherlock?” They’d held hands before, although unintentionally, at least on John’s part. He hadn’t gone too far by doing this, had he?

“You’re welcome,” the brunette said eventually. He slowly tugged his hand back but it didn’t seem to be out of discomfort. “I... I found this for the mango curd.”

He dug into his trouser pocket for his phone, unlocked it and showed it to his flatmate.

John leaned closer to see, thinking that the time might be right for reading glasses after all, and scanned the recipe.

“Alright. That looks rather doable,” he admitted. “It’s just for a normal lemon curd, though, with just the juice. Are you sure we can transfer that to a mango?”

“If we puree it properly and then add some more butter, we can do it.”

“We’ve never done even regular curd before.”

Sherlock smiled. “But isn’t doing something new where we excel?” he asked, voice strangely soft.

John swallowed. The air suddenly seemed somewhat stifling. “True,” he answered, equally softly.

He wanted so much to just close the gap and kiss Sherlock, finally feel if those lips were as plush and soft as they appeared, soppy as that sounded.

His moment was gone before he mustered the courage; Sherlock had turned to continue pulling out the things they’d need for the bake. There was some definite colour dotting those high cheekbones again.

“So…we’re to blind bake this one, too, right? That’s what the contestants did, right?”

“If we want to minimize the risk of a soggy bottom, it would seem the smart choice.”

“Don’t go knocking the soggy bottoms, they can be a lot of fun,” John said completely straight-faced as he got the eggs and the butter out and put them on the table. He thought he heard a small snigger but he wasn’t sure.

 

* * *

 

 

“Bugger.”

“What now?”

“How are we supposed to puree it? We don’t have a blender.”

“Ah.” Curls bobbed as Sherlock dipped down to pull something out from a shelf. “Will a hand blender do?” he asked, holding it up almost triumphantly.

“When did we get that?”

“Months ago; I needed to see if eyeballs – “

“Sherlock, what did I say about discussing things like that when we’re baking?”

“You’ve said nothing of the sort. You said I shouldn’t mention entrails at the dinner table – and to forestall you asking, no, I never used it.”

“Good.” John reached for it, letting himself enjoy the feel of their hands touching briefly. “Which meringue type are you going for, by the way? Swiss?”

“French, I think.”

“That seems awfully simple for you, no offense.”

Conversation was postponed while John turned on the hand blender and blitzed the chopped-up mango in the bowl.

“No need to make it overly complicated just for its own sake.”

“Oh? So, I’m not worth impressing, am I?”

“Impress? No.” John’s heart didn’t have time to sink. “Amaze? Most definitely.”

With that, he turned his attention back to the oven and pulled out the tin so he could remove the baking parchment with the beans and then put the pastry back in for its final bake pre-curd.

He straightened back up to find John cutting the butter into cubes before he turned his attention back to the pot.

“Is it just the yolks?”

The doctor shook his head. “The recipe you found said to use whole eggs so that’s what I’m doing. Got the preserving sugar, the mango and the eggs in here but damned if I know whether it’s thickening or not. I think we might have been better off just using some mango juice, if I’m honest.”

“Is it harder to stir than when you started?” Sherlock asked, moving closer.

“I think so, actually, if I – oi, you keep a bit of distance when I’ve got anything hot on here. It was your fault last time.”

“I have to be close to the oven if I’m to watch the pastry, John – if you’re that worried, you could have bought a portable stove.”

“And have the whole fire brigade in here again? Ta, I think I’ll pass.” Deeming the concoction had indeed started to thicken, he slowly started adding the butter, stirring throughout. He was cheered by the fact that it started to look right, if nothing else.

“You’re such a worry wart.” Sherlock bent to check on the pastry again and, apparently deeming it sufficiently baked, took it out and left it on the table to cool a bit.

“With an overgrown toddler in the house, I have to be to survive.”

Sherlock merely shrugged in response. “Remember that there should be some thickening agent in that, too,” he commented, his back to John as he separated the eggs and put the egg whites into a clean bowl. We don’t want it wobbling or the moisture seeping into the meringue.”

“Yeah, cheers, I remember that.” He hadn’t but Sherlock didn’t need to know. “You just whisk the meringue properly, please.”

Sherlock sniffed and turned on the electric whisk. The noise drowned out pretty much everything else but the whisk was thankfully rather effective and the mix was quickly stiff enough to risk putting the bowl over, of course, John’s head.

“I ought to throw this right over _you_ ,” the blonde groused, holding up his pot of only slightly cooled curd for emphasis before he poured it into the pastry case. “What if it hadn’t been stiff enough?”

“You can tell if it’s not ready as soon as you start tilting the bowl. You were never in any danger.”

Satisfied with a job well done, Sherlock started up the whisk again and began to slowly add first the caster sugar and then the icing sugar.

When it was thick and glossy, he stopped the whisk again and straightened up.

“Right. That’s all done for – why are you staring at me, John?”

_Because you’ve managed to get small globs of meringue all over your bloody face_ , John thought and, without thinking, reached out a hand and wiped off a white dot sitting on Sherlock’s cheek just beside his nose.

A giggle escaped him at the completely nonplussed look on Sherlock’s face. It didn’t stop them from continuing to stare at each other, the tension back in the room.

Then, as it wobbled and threatened to overbalance in his other hand, he remembered the pie.

“Hang on, just give me a moment to put this in and I’ll kiss you.”

He quickly bent down so he could slide the pie in and close the oven door. When he straightened up again, it was to find Sherlock blinking at him as though the hard drive was trying to reboot but kept encountering an error.

John felt his smile return. For all the sweetness and care and hints that he’d shown through the weeks, such a blunt declaration was not only unexpected but slightly difficult to comprehend.

_I do hope he didn’t expect his advances to have gone appreciated but otherwise unrequited. Bloody hell, that would be horrible but also make a whole lot of sense._

Pushing that uncomfortable thought very firmly out of his mind, John made sure he was still smiling softly and moved closer. He brought a hand up and gently cupped one cheek, giving Sherlock time to pull away, if he wanted to.

Instead those pale eyes stared down, a flicker of hope in the depth of them.

John leant up and pressed his lips against his those of his flatmate, noting in the back of his mind that they were indeed soft but not quite as soft as he’d imagined. It didn’t mean they didn’t feel wonderful to finally kiss.

Sherlock was unresponsive but only for a moment. Then he might a strange, strangled noise and pressed back. One hand came up to grab hold of John’s shoulder, presumably for balance and support. The other still held the electric whisk.

John started to pull back, not wanting to go faster than his detective was comfortable with, but he was followed and his lips were claimed again, this time in a flurry of shorter kisses, each landing slightly differently, as though Sherlock was trying to catalogue the feel and taste of the doctor’s lips in every possible detail. John certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

He could have happily stayed there, being kissed and kissing in turn, but after a few minutes Sherlock pulled back.

“Cake,” he said softly, the smile adorning his face as soft as his voice and the look in his eyes.

“What?” For John, for a moment he was speaking right gibberish. Then it dawned. “Oh, right. The pie!”

They scrambled to get it out of the oven and check whether the filling had set. Thankfully, it had and they got it out completely.

“So…you’re the meringue expert, how do you want to put it on? In the shape of flowers or something?”

“Meringue always look good when you manage to get that golden colouring to it so…just tops, I suppose.”

“Right. I’ll get the piping bag for you.”

“Hold on,” and before John could move away, Sherlock leaned in to press another kiss to his lips. He pulled back almost immediately but John didn’t mind. Too much, at least.

“You’re not going to keep that to just when we’re baking, too, are you?” he asked as the fished for the bag, hoping his thumping heart wouldn’t betray his nervousness at the question.

“Not unless they are unwelcome at other times.”

“Like hell they are.” John grinned and shook his head. “You daft, wonderful sod, why couldn’t you just have come out and asked instead or something?”

He half-expected Sherlock to brush it off somehow. What he got instead was a look of uncertainty before the brunette looked down, focusing on the piping of the meringue with a telling intensity.

“Sherlock?”

“Still need to get this finished.”

“Sherlock.”

“It’ll go flat if we leave it and then it’s unusable.” Despite everything, the meringue came out in perfectly formed, swirled tops.

“Sherlock, would you stop and look at me? Please?”

Pale eyes slowly lifted but the hands didn’t stop their work. Then the eyes lowered again. “I didn’t want you to go.”

“Go? What do you mean, go?”

“Leave.”

“Why would I leave?”

“You’re not stupid, John, why do you think?” There was a pause. “If I…tested the waters, I could see what you were comfortable with without you catching on.”

“Did you ever expect me to? You didn’t, did you?” Silence was as good as an answer. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“What was I supposed to think?” The words were spoken very quietly. “You haven’t exactly given any hints or picked up on what I was doing.”

John moved in close again and brought his good hand up to once again gently cup the cheek furthest from him, vaguely noting that there was still meringue on it. “I know. I’m a bit dense at times and I’m sorry.” He pressed a kiss to the other cheek. “I got there in the end, though, didn’t I?” he whispered.

Finally, Sherlock turned his head to look at John, his gaze searching, scrutinizing. John let him, hoping that he’d see something that would reassure him sufficiently.

It seemed like he did for a small smile slowly bloomed across the defined features and he leaned into the hand gently pressed against his cheek.

They stayed like that for a moment or two.

“We still need to get the pie into the oven.”

“Hm? Oh, right, yes.” John turned his eyes towards the pie, halfway covered in swirled meringue tops. “You’ve got a knack for piping and all that stuff, I must say. Really wouldn’t have expected that.”

“Chemistry requires precision and a steady hand.”

“Uh-huh. Is that why there’s corrosion spots and small blackened areas all over this kitchen, then?”

“No, that’s just artistic flair.”

“Right.” John pressed another small kiss to Sherlock’s face before he withdrew, tongue darting out ever so briefly to catch a small glob of meringue. He was pleased to see the small shudder that caused.

 

* * *

 

 

“That really does look amazing.”

“Yes, John, so you’ve said. Around five times by now – and you’ve taken several pictures. Would you just cut into it already?”

“What was that about patience?”

“I said ‘precision’, not ‘patience’.”

“Ah. Of course – silly me, really.”

“John.”

“Alright already, I’m cutting the damn pie.”

He felt a hand on his thigh as he cut two slices, feeling oddly pleased that it looked good inside, too.

It tasted quite great, as well, and he said so, mouth full of pie. He got an orange-and-white smile for his effort.

“I think we can safely call this bake a success,” was Sherlock’s only comment after he’d swallowed, “don’t you think?”

“Definitely. Roaring success – ah, no. We’re not signing up for the Bake Off, Sherlock. We’re not.”

“We did all of this without following a recipe.”

“Without following a specific recipe, you mean, there’s a difference.”

“I fail to see the problem.”

“Yeah, that figures. Can we just…can we try and master a few more things first?”

“Oh, alright. If you insist.”

John leant in and stole a kiss. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could end it here. If the consensus is that it's okay to let it go at this chapter, then that's what we'll do. If not, I'm happy to continue, too :)
> 
> If continued, there might be a bit of a wait for the next chapter, though, simply because I have to focus on writing a commission for someone.


	7. Mini Mousse Cakes for Desserts Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because they're now in a relationship doesn't mean that they've jumped straight to a fully fledged sexual one. Not that John doesn't want to but Sherlock seems a bit hesitant outside their baking times. So the doctor sets out to find out just what his new boyfriend is comfortable with.  
> John also promised Sherlock that they'd do a showstopper, but that might be a bit different showstopper than either of them expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think that I had abandoned this? I don't blame you if you did. I apologize for the wait time.  
> Wow. Here I was worried whether anyone wanted it to continue and then people were so very kind with their wishes for more.
> 
> Special thanks goes to Pepperpan :D ^^ Hah!

Of course, it did not just stop with them sharing a kiss, or sharing a lot of them, for that matter, many of them more to be categorized as full blown snogs. Life went on and for the residents of 221B, nothing much changed.

That wasn’t to say that nothing had changed, however. The touches had most definitely carried over to the following days and so did the kisses. Indeed, they had been quite a frequent occurrence.

What hadn’t been there had been any sort of talking about it. Not about what they were now, how they were going to tackle being what they were and what they were going in the future. Not that they need to have everything sorted from day one, obviously, but that nothing had been said at all were a little strange and, honestly, a tiny bit worrying.

It wasn’t that John thought Sherlock was having second thoughts or didn’t really want it. He could have done it so many other ways if either of those were the case and done so quite easily, John knew. Yet he hadn’t. He’d done it sweetly and slowly and never pressured or presumed anything.

So, while John still felt slightly uncertain as to how their life together would look, he wasn’t feeling any real nervousness or worry. They would get there, wherever there was and what it entailed, eventually. Hopefully.

As it was, he took the time to enjoy what they did have, particularly the continued gentleness of Sherlock’s touches. He was forward and eager to participate whenever they shared a kiss but the touches remained gentle and soft, almost reverent at times.

“John?”

The voice broke him out of his unintended reverie. “Yeah?”

“Oh, good, you _are_ there. I thought for a moment you’d decided to do a Sherlock on me.”

“No…not quite,” he said with a small, apologetic smile as he looked up at Sarah.

She’d come in with two mugs, one of which she’d put down on John’s desk. Now she stood and smiled at him over the top of her own mug, eyebrow raised. “It is about him, though, isn’t it? I know that look.”

John frowned in puzzlement. “What look would that be?”

Her smiled broadened. “That frustrated, caring, pissed off, fond, exasperated yet utterly besotted look.”

“Am I that transparent?” he asked, not bothering to deny it. What would be the point?

“Perhaps not if you haven’t seen it slowly grow as I have, despite all your attempts at dating.”

“I wouldn’t call us an attempt.” For some reason, that hurt a little. “I meant it when I asked you out.”

“I know you did. But I’m also glad that we’re not an item anymore.” She sat down on the patient chair. “Go on, then.”

“Sarah, I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You only say that because that’s probably all you did.” She paused for a moment. “Oh, god, is it, though, isn’t it?” She was doing that odd smile women sometimes did when they encountered something adorable.

John looked up at the ceiling. “I wish I hadn’t come to work.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop. You still need to tell me what you baked, though. We watched it on Wednesday and couldn’t agree on what you would choose to make. Did you make a three-tier flower cake? That was the one I bet on.”

“God, I’m glad you two don’t talk, you’d have ganged up on me. No, I managed to steer him away from it, somehow. Cost me that the next two bakes will be showstoppers, though, so I’m not sure I got the good end of the bargain, really.”

She waved a hand. “You’ll be fine, I’m sure. Anyway, what did you make, then?”

He couldn’t help grinning as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. “We made a meringue pie with mango curd,” he said, not able to hide the hint of pride in his voice.

“And you’ve got evidence,” she said with an eye on the phone. “Go on, then. show me.”

* * *

 

When Wednesday came, John had to admit to feeling a bit wrong-footed. Not because something had happened but…was the procedure still the same they’d had up until then? He couldn’t immediately see why it wouldn’t be but on the other hand, Sherlock no longer had any need to do all the little things designed to, what was it he’d said? Test the waters?

Expecting to come home to a flat looking approximately like it had before the Bake Off, both the official one and their personal one, had kicked off, he’d taken precautions and brought home take-away. It wasn’t their usual Bake Off watching fair, he knew that, but he’d felt very hungry on the way home and since he expected to be the one getting food, and probably also the one eating it in any case, from now on, he might as well pick something that he wanted to eat which would fill him up.

When he stepped inside, however, he was greeted not only by the sight of a sofa table laden with all sorts of different foods but a detective that was upon him almost the moment he opened the front door.

“Why must you insist on taking the most roundabout ways to get home?” what was he got by way of greeting.

“I didn’t and even if I did, I’m home in plenty of time for the show, so don’t go chewing me out on details.”

John glared slightly but that only got him a smile and a kiss. He started to smile into the kiss but when they parted, he noticed his bag had been pried from his fingers. He got a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t…well, I wasn’t sure…” How the blooming hell did he explain that he thought the things Sherlock had done had only been to sweeten John up and now that he’d gotten what he was after, John had assumed there would be no reason to continue with it?

In the end, he didn’t need to, though. Sherlock being Sherlock, he understood quite quickly after a minute flick of his eyes down to the food he was now holding.

“Not to worry, you can have this for lunch tomorrow.” He headed into the kitchen. “It’s good it’s portable, too. That way you can eat while I interview someone.”

“Wait, what? Since when did you have a case?” He certainly hadn’t had one when the doctor had left for work in the morning.

Sherlock came back after having put the food in the fridge. “Lestrade called this afternoon,” he explained calmly.

“Shouldn’t I be keeping my jacket on, then?”

“No?” There was a frown of incomprehension.

_Oh. “_ So, I’m not needed for this one?”

The frown deepened. “Why would I say you should come with me on an interview if you weren’t needed?”

“To placate me?”

To that obviously idiotic comment, Sherlock merely sniffed and shook his head. He grabbed hold of the jacket John was still only halfway out of and pulled until it was all the way off. He then grabbed hold of the blond’s wrist and practically dragged him over to the sofa.

“Sherlock, stop. I haven’t gotten my shoes off. Sherlock!”

No one was listening. Instead John was more or less shoved onto the sofa, shoes and all.

“Oi!”

There was still no answer as Sherlock bent to get his shoes off then directed his feet up onto the cushion so that he was halfway between sitting and lying down, with his knees bent and his socked feet against the cushion.

That was only until Sherlock was also on the sofa; the way he tried to fit against John didn’t work with the doctor’s current way of sitting at all. So he sighed, straightened up and put his feet back on the floor, which earned him a sour look.

“We’re not all octopuses able to bend in unnatural ways just for our amusement. Give me a moment to find a position that I can maintain for over an hour and still get at the…wow.” He stopped and took in what was on the table. “Did you buy all of this?”

“Only the ingredients.”

“You made all of this for tonight _and_ took on a case? You _have_ had a busy day.” He wiggled a bit and then, once comfortable, he lifted one arm and held it out in clear invitation.

It was taken almost immediately and Sherlock plastered himself against the blond as he always did. Deviating from the norm was not only John’s arm now deliberately and openly around the lanky body but the doctor’s lips pressed against messy curls.

“Thank you,” he said, words muffled by the hair. “You didn’t have to, though.”

“As though I’d leave you with the impression that I only did any of this to get into your trousers,” Sherlock replied, sounding very offended.

“Well, that’s not completely dispelled, though, is it?” John couldn’t help teasing. “You still haven’t gotten in there yet, after all.”

Sherlock’s only response was to pull back enough for him to spare the blond a glance out of the corner of his eye but didn’t otherwise deign to reply to the comment. He picked up the remote, almost pointedly turned on the telly and then settled back against the smaller man. As the cold open of the show rolled, a lanky arm snaked between John’s back and the sofa cushion, hand coming to land on a hip just inside the doctor’s jeans.

“Doesn’t count,” John remarked, feeling that it was a worthwhile thing to point out.

This time he didn’t even get a look or glance, just a tightening of the arm around his waist and he guessed he couldn’t really complain about that.

“Sarah’s got a bet going on us,” he commented as they watched the bakers start on their signature roulade.

“So has half the Yard, most of the takeaways we frequent and Mycroft. It’s hardly noteworthy.”

“She’s been betting on what bake we’d make each week, not whether we’re really a couple or not, don’t be unfair.” Something else suddenly struck him as odd about that sentence. “Hang on just a – _Mycroft?”_

“Yes? What of it?” Sherlock sighed. “Must you continue to chatter?”

“Excuse me if I genuinely want to talk to my partner,” and boy, didn’t that word send a shiver done his spine, “when I’ve just gotten home from work. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

He got a press of lips against his jaw for his trouble. He glanced down.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it but I’m not going to allow you to just kiss me and then everything’s forgiven and absolved, either.”

“I never expected that,” Sherlock said and John strongly suspected it was a lie. “But I’d like to watch the show.”

“Yeah, I get that, but we can watch it and talk at the same time. We’re not going to miss any important tips right now, anyway.”

“We might.”

“I promised that we’d do the showstopper challenges for the next two bakes. Aside from possible general tips, what else do you need to know from the signature and the technical challenge?”

“It never hurt to be prepared.”

“Says the laziest arse in all of London. Oi, don’t steal my food.”

“I made it.”

“And it was making its way to my mouth. Ergo, it was mine.”

“Your conclusion is faulty. It’s not yours until it’s inside your mouth.”

“I suspect that even then you’d probably find a way to steal it.” Now there was an experiment to suggest at another date, possibly.

“You’re the one always nagging me to eat and now that I do, it’s a problem as well?”

“I thought you wanted to see the show?” There was a definite note of teasing.

Having been called out on it didn’t seem to faze Sherlock much, however. He merely let out a huff and turned his attention bag to the telly.

They were thankfully only halfway through the signature bake of a family sized roulade. As they went through what each contest had planned to make, John couldn’t help the regretful thought that he would much rather be making the roulade, difficult though it seemed to be, than make a lot of mini mousse cakes.

Of course, they could be made relatively simply, if needed, but knowing Sherlock and the bargain they’d made the week before, he very much doubted that either of the showstoppers he’d agreed to go with would be kept even remotely simple. After all, his hand was feeling better and the brunet did have a love of the dramatic, to say the least.

He was a bit worried about the mixed response Tom got on his roulade but the fact that Jane got a relatively good response on hers helped a bit.

As they moved on to the technical challenge of a marjolaine, which he had never ever heard of before, John felt his heart lighten a bit. That looked an absolute nightmare to make, what with a nutty meringue, a chocolate ganache, praline and buttercream all being parts going into the creation, and he had the horrible feeling that it might have been as legitimate a contender for their next bake.

Before he could do more than count his blessings, however, they were on to the mini mousse cakes and he saw in much more detail just what would be expected of them to make the cakes as they showed the artist’s representation of the planned finished product.

The arm around his waist tightened. He looked down to see the brunet’s lips quirk up in a small smile.

“Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worrying. Who says I’m worrying?”

“Your slight perspiration and the increased rigidness in your spine not to mention the fact that you keep sneaking small glances at me as though wondering which one of them I will pick for us to try.”

“I’m not daft enough to think that you’d be satisfied with just copying one of the contestants at this point.”

Sherlock smiled. “See? You do have your clever moments.”

“Why do I even bother?” John muttered. Yet he was smiling himself as he bent down to capture a soft kiss.

“Can we at least pick something without too many bells and whistles?” he asked a few minutes later. “They look pretty but I don’t see why we would need to make something that overly ornate just for the sake of it.” He paused for effect. “Especially seeing as we haven’t ever made mousse before – and if you dare utter a phrase even remotely resembling ‘how hard can it be?’, I swear I’ll slap you.”

Sherlock only grinned. “With or without trousers on?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh, sod off.”

The grin widened. “Interesting word choice.”

John’s head thumped against the back of the sofa. “Go back to watching the show, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

 

It occurred to John the next day, standing slightly behind Sherlock as he tore into the man they were supposed to interview, that although Sherlock had been quite happy to snuggle and touch – though the touches had been slightly tentative in their own right – the previous evening as well as the snogging and touches since Saturday and had made suggestive comments, he had not gone beyond that.

Of course, it wasn’t as though John had expected the brunet to leap straight from nothing at all to working on all cylinders, as it were, and truth be told, he didn’t mind too much.

Not that he would be averse for there to be a more sexual part to the relationship, of course not. Quite the reverse, in fact. He was still a fully functional male with the desires that entailed for a romantic relationship, after all, and he’d very much like to fulfil those desires _with_ Sherlock rather than taking care of them on his own.

However, that did not automatically translate into jumping the man or expecting him to be forward and be the one to do the jumping.

As he stood there, it struck him that all of it might just go beyond…not so much what Sherlock would be comfortable with as too far outside his experience for him to risk jeopardizing what they did have by trying. Much as had been the case with the hints in general that could so easily be ignored or dismissed as another Sherlock oddity, which John had done himself, after all.

_Bloody twerp is scared of what will happen if he just takes the leap here…which I suppose I can’t even blame him for, unless I want to admit that I’m being hypocritical as all hell and that’s of course a possibility and – oh, bugger._

The curse inside his own mind that cut off his stream of thought was caused by Sherlock looking to him with a smile as though he expected praise for his latest deductions. Only John hadn’t heard any of what had been rattled off, absorbed as he’d been in his own thoughts and speculations.

Not wanting to disappoint his friend, he _somehow_ managed to come up with a reasonably plausible compliment that made the detective preen a bit, much as he would deny it if he was called out on it.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said on the way home in the cab, his voice quiet but strangely earnest.

“Ehm, you’re welcome, but what exactly are you thanking me for?”

“For your help.”

“I hardly did anything, Sherlock. Greg and I mostly just stood watching you work, as per usual.”

“Not true,” the brunet insisted.

“Okay, what exactly did I help with, then?” John asked, puzzled.

Without a word, Sherlock lifted the hand that he had closest to the other, which had up until then been resting on the seat between them. Long fingers were tightly interlaced with broader, calloused ones.

“Ah,” was all John could think to say.

They had been holding hands ever since Sherlock had concluded his interrogation and John had complimented him; the doctor had come up close and slipped his hand into that of his friend and new boyfriend, without thinking too much about it. It had felt right to do.

For the first few seconds the bony hand had been unresponsive as though the gesture hadn’t truly registered. Then there was a hesitant grip in return which then became far more sure and tight, fingers interlacing.

Lestrade, more observant than Sherlock gave him credit for, had noticed almost immediately. He’d blinked a few times, looked between them as if to confirm what he’d picked up on. Then he’d grinned and winked as he’d caught John’s eye.

The rest of the Yarders hadn’t been quite as understanding, it seemed, giving quite odd looks they’d given, but they’d had the sense to keep their mouths shut, at the very least when they’d caught the blond’s eye.

Back in the cab, the brunet seemed to understand the lack of response. At least he didn’t look offended by it.

“That I choose to ignore them doesn’t mean I don’t notice them,” Sherlock commented as he squeezed the hand in his.

_Well, there’s a step in the right direction in terms of moving into a fully-fledged romantic relationship. Now to work out how to get him comfortable with some other things._

Of course, it _could_ also just be that Sherlock didn’t want to go into anything sexual, with John or anyone else. But that didn’t quite fit in with his behaviour, however relatively shy it had been, so John figured he could test that at the same time, by going slow and being observant, as well as doing it while they were baking, in the space that Sherlock had clearly mentally allotted as the time when it was okay to push boundaries and try out things.

Well, two could play at that game, couldn’t they?

* * *

 

 

“What the hell is ‘acetate roll’?”

“It’s what you put ‘round the sponges so you can pour the mousse on top to set without everything oozing out immediately,” John explained as he plucked the roll from the detective’s hand. “Weren’t you paying attention during the show?”

“I…may have been a bit distracted,” Sherlock admitted, sounding slightly reluctant about doing so, which wasn’t helped by the amused smile on the blond’s face. “But surely a simple tin is fine.”

“Not if you want to be sure of an even, smooth surface all the way around. It’s much easier to get off than even loose-bottomed tins are to pop out and reduces the risk of half the mousse sticking somewhere it’s not supposed to.”

Just as well, when you’ve apparently decided to raid the store supply of it.”

“Three rolls are hardly the entire supply and I wanted to be prepared for once, seeing as I know you, Mr. Holmes.” _And you are going to have spent at least half of it on different bakes, if we get this right, don’t even try to pretend that you aren’t._

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“No, of course you don’t,” John sighed in that special exasperatedly fond tone he reserved just for the detective.

He surveyed what he had hauled back from the shops. “So, is that just about everything we’re going to need or are you going to send me off again?” He certainly hoped so; it had been a rather big haul and his back was making its complaints about it known.

Sherlock spared only the briefest glance at the shopping before he nodded. “You could have picked something other than raspberries, though.”

“Look, clever clogs, when you request fresh berries of good quality in _October_ , grown in the UK, mind, the choices are not quite as vast as you seem to imagine they are, but then again, I don’t know why I’m surprised, seeing as you’d never so much as think of – “He stopped as he spotted the minute smirk on the other’s face. “You’re having me on.”

“Of course I am. Raspberries are fine – and I re-located our own hand blender to puree them with.” He held up the device as evidence.

“Good. That’s something. This whole thing is going to bankrupt us with all the stuff we need to buy just to get it up and running. The less we absolutely need to spend, the better.”

“Never took you to be a miser.”

“Worrying about actually having money at the end of the month does not equal being miserly, you spendthrift. That’s just called ordinary common sense, which, granted, you seem to have very little of, most of the time.”

Sherlock came up and, quite nonchalantly, wrapped a long arm around the doctor’s midsection, planting a kiss on his temple. “That’s what I’ve got you for, though, innit?” he said with a small smile. “I take care of the logic while you cover common sense.”

John had to concede the point. He surveyed what had been laid out. Meanwhile, he noted that Sherlock hadn’t moved away after kissing him and that the arm around him held him close enough to feel every contour of that lanky body behind him, especially…well, then. The game was on, indeed.

 “Right. So far, so good. At least we’ve everything lined up before we start. What’s the order for all of this, then? Please don’t tell me you plan on freestyling this one, too.”

“Not at all.” The brunet paused at the look he was given. “Well, sort of,” he reluctantly amended. “I didn’t particularly like any of the combinations the contestants came up, so I found a recipe for a blackberry mousse that should be good for a raspberry version.”

“Okay, yeah, so far, not talking complete rubbish. Are we doing a berry-combo on chocolate, then?”

“Not quite.”

The blond turned his eyes skywards briefly. “No, I didn’t think so, either, somehow. Wouldn’t really fit, would it?”

“It’s the showstopper, John, don’t be unreasonable.”

_Yeah, ‘cause it’s me who’s being unreasonable. Obviously._

Outwardly, he let it slide. “Alright, fine. I’m not doing any more than four mousses in total, though. We’ll have plenty to do – and plenty of waiting, too, mind, for the different mousses to set, which I bet you’ve conveniently forgotten. That’s not even mentioning the sponges, which I guess we’ll also be making different kinds of?”

“One chocolate, one honey,” Sherlock confirmed. He detached his arm to grab two bowls, presumably one for each sponge mix. He did not, however, move away from being pressed up against the shorter man.

_Interesting._

“What is it with you and honey?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, John, you know how I feel about that.”

“And yet you repeat the admonishment not to make you repeat yourself. Did you notice that?”

Sherlock gave a huff in response and moved away, which told John that he’d possibly hit a bit of a nerve.

“So, we’re splitting this up between us, then?”

“It would be the most efficient, at least in regards to the sponges.”

John had to concede the point. It’d also give him a bit more time to think on how exactly he wanted to go about seeing what Sherlock was comfortable with, intimacy-wise, which he could certainly do with.

As he started whisking the egg yolks together with the sugar with some force behind it and accidentally sent some of it splashing up onto his chin and his cheek, he did indeed get something of an idea on what to do.

A small smirk started to spread across his face and though he tried to hide it, his only real protection from the keen eye of the brunet was, he hoped, the fact that Sherlock was intent on his own bowl.

* * *

 

“No.”

“John – “

“No,” John said firmly. “You’re not putting two in there at the same time and that’s final.”

Sherlock had the audacity to pout and cross his arms over his chest. “It would save time.”

“Time isn’t really the issue here, though, is it? We’ve got four mousses to make, there’ll be plenty of logistics gymnastics to contend with as is, never mind the wait for them to set. We can have the second sponge baking while we make the first mousse, which will allow the first sponge to cool in the fridge.”

He took a breath before continuing, with his eyes daring the taller man to interrupt him. “What we don’t need, on top of all of that, is this frankly wonky oven to bake them unevenly or even not bake them at all, just because we’ve decided to put two sponges in there when it can only reasonably manage one.”

When he finished, the pout hadn’t left. Instead it had been joined by a slight frown.

Well, there was one way he might wipe it off, wasn’t there?

He took a step forward to bring him into the other’s personal space. Then another, leaning up for a kiss at the same time he slid his hand around to a pert bum. At the same time he landed the kiss, he gave one cheek a quick and firm squeeze, pressing the lanky body into his own body somewhat.

When he pulled back, the expression he was met with had changed to surprise and tentative delight, a distinctive tinge of colour high on those cheekbones.

“Which one do you want to put in first?”

Pale eyes widened and the colour on the cheeks got darker. “Ehm – “he began falteringly.

It took a great deal of effort for John to keep his grin at bay at that. It was almost too sweet. But only almost. If only he could take a picture of that expression.

“Should it be the chocolate sponge or the honey sponge?” he clarified, after rejecting his first thought of ‘mine or yours’ as a response. It was tempting as all hell but he ought to spare the poor man. At least for the moment.

“Chocolate,” the detective said.

He turned back towards the two tins they’d already poured the mixes into, perhaps slightly more abruptly than he otherwise would have, grabbed the tin in question and turned back to put it in the oven. He didn’t look at the older man at any point.

John wasn’t fazed. “I’m not the local expert on flavours here, of course,” he said, “but I’m guessing you want the blackberry mousse with the chocolate sponge? I can’t really see blackberry on honey sponge, but…”

“Stop blabbering, John,” Sherlock interrupted with a bark, sounding decidedly annoyed. He still had some colour in his cheeks, however, and further proof was given by the fact that he was crouched in front of the oven door, watching what was inside. “Of course, it’s supposed to be the blackberry mousse with the chocolate sponge and the white chocolate mint mousse.”

John went over to stand beside his detective and let his hand gently fall on the back of the man’s neck. Now that they were officially a couple, lack of sexual intimacy notwithstanding, he had no qualms about standing close or giving casual, affectionate touches. Not that he was going to become one of those people who constantly had to touch their partner, of course, he never had been. But it was nice to be able to express his affection like that and none of his previous partners had ever complained.

He pushed his fingers gently upwards so they slid through the fine, soft hairs and into the thicker mass of curls, rubbing ever so slightly as he did so. He could be wrong but he thought he heard a tiny pleased noise from the other.

He most definitely didn’t imagine the push of the head into his hand, though. A warmth bloomed inside of him, from the fact that he got to see those kinds of reactions from the younger Holmes.

“You got some particular recipes you want to follow for the each of the mousses?” he asked softly. “Or have you got a basic one we’re working the specifics from?”

That had happened a few times; once John had come home to find several trays of biscuits littering the counter tops, each holding biscuits with their own variations on a basic biscuit recipe. Some were good, like the lemon ones and the hazelnut-ginger ones, and some not so much, like the malt biscuits and especially the liquorice ones.

“I did tell you about the berry ones.” The words were slightly undermined by the continued pressing up against John’s hand.

“Yeah, okay, fair point, but we can’t just substitute everything for the berry puree, now can we? The consistencies won’t match up and it’ll go all runny.”

Sherlock rose slowly back to his feet, dislodging the doctor’s hand in the process. “That’s what you’ve got the gelatine powder for. To adjust consistency.”

“Only up to a point, Sherlock. You can’t just add gelatine powder to things willy-nilly, not if you don’t want something you can use as a space hopper, at least.”

“Mummy’s jam tended to end up that way,” Sherlock noted with a grimace. “She never could understand why we always ended up with such a lot of it left by the time she’d made a new batch. Luckily for you, I have found specific recipes for all four of the mousses. We’ll start with the white chocolate mint, I think, it should give a nice colour contrast between the brown of the chocolate and the purple of the blackberries.”

He dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out what turned out to be several folded pieces of paper, each of which held a different recipe. He shuffled them to get the right one on top.

John looked over at the paper and gave a small groan. “Of-bleeding-course there’d be another bain-marie.”

“It’s white _chocolate_ mint, John, what did you expect? You’re the one insisting that we don’t use the microwave, it has to be melted somehow.”

“And we can’t just have the mint without the chocolate? No, of course we can’t, silly of me – you’re in charge of the bain-marie, then. I’m not risking standing in front of hot liquid with you near.”

A pained expression crossed Sherlock’s features. Realizing his mistake, John reached over and grabbed a bony hand, squeezing it gently.

“I’ll take the chocolate,” the doctor said, “and in a bit, you can start on whipping the cream – after you’ve put the gelatine to soak, of course.”

Sherlock nodded both his understanding as well as his thanks, briefly consulted the recipe to see how long the gelatine powder needed to optimally soak for and what consistency the cream needed to be and went to work.

Meanwhile, John started to heat the water while breaking the chocolate into the bowl. The eggs yolks needed he’d separate later.

Once that was done, he checked on the sponge in the oven. As they’d forgotten to set the timer, he had to estimate whether it was done or not. After poking it, he felt certain, sort of, that it was done and so he took it out.

Unfortunately, when he backed up with the cake between his oven-gloved hands, he forgot to take into account the lack of space in the kitchen, which was only heightened by the body standing at the kitchen table, whipping the cream. As a result, John’s last step backwards sent him right into the back of the detective.

Sherlock must have been absorbed in what he was doing, since he gave a bit of a start at being bumped into, which also sent him forward. The cream didn’t fly into the air and the bowl didn’t fall onto the floor. It did, however, wobble and eventually overbalance, as Sherlock tipping forward had pushed at it. As a result, a good portion of the mostly-whipped cream left the bowl and splashed over the lower part of the man’s shirt.

“Shit!” John swore as he took a hasty step forward again. He was about to turn around and apologize but remembered to put the tin onto the stovetop first, for safety’s sake.

He was about to say sorry but the word died in his throat at the sight in front of him.

It wasn’t even funny. Well, no, it was, but that was mostly because of the look of sheer indignant irritation on Sherlock’s face as he looked down himself at his soiled shirt, since he had of course not deigned it necessary to don the apron he’d been gifted by Mrs. Hudson.

She’d given it to him when she realized that he was baking regularly but so far, he’d only worn it the day he’d been given it, to make her happy.

The fact that the taller man seemed almost frozen in position wasn’t alleviating the humour of it any.

Strangely, though, John didn’t feel like laughing. He normally would have, he knew, and it wasn’t as though he’d let his own part in the accident dampen his laughter.

It had far more to do with the fact that he had been looking for an opening, as it were, and here one had landed in his lap, begging to be…well…

He slowly moved forward, careful not to move too suddenly, lest he jolt Sherlock out of his momentary frozen state. Not that he was going to do anything that the man didn’t want to but he might draw back out of uncertainty.

Thankfully for John, he managed to come right up in front of Sherlock and slowly begin to unbutton the shirt before the other noticed.

“John?” Sherlock queried. The tone was hesitant, to be certain, as well as unsure but also cautiously hopeful.

“Got to get this off you so it can go in the wash,” John said calmly as he continued unbuttoning. “If it dries, it’ll stink of soured cream and might stain.”

Sherlock only nodded and John noted that the pale eyes followed the movement of the fingers as they moved slowly upwards, popping buttons. The movement of the chest underneath the shirt became gradually more noticeable as they did so.

The corner of the doctor’s mouth quirked upwards. So he had calculated correctly. Or at least, there was evidence now to support the theory but nothing was conclusive, of course.

_I guess I just have to gather more evidence, then, don’t I?_

Once every button had been loosened and the shirt hung loose, John allowed himself the pleasure of just taking in the gorgeous body before him. Not for long, though, as he had better things to do and didn’t want to even remotely make Sherlock anxious.

Granted, the man didn’t seem all too anxious as he watched John smooth his fingers over pale, soft skin to push the garment off bony shoulders. It fluttered down to the floor, unheeded, as calloused fingers traced a path back down that torso.

In fact, what he said was, “You planned this.” The tone was caught between delighted, accusatory and amused, with just a bit of nerves hiding at the bottom.

“Yeah, of course I planned to back into you with a sponge cake in my hands while you were whipping cream so it’d tip out of the bowl and down your front instead of just onto the floor,” John countered, raising an eyebrow as he looked up at the other. “Of course. Classic manoeuvre, really. Done it dozens of times, works an absolute treat.”

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you shut up and…” there was a slight pause and a bobbing of Adam’s apple as well as a quick lick of lips, betraying the underlying emotions, “…and continue? Please”

John grinned and rose on his toes a bit to plant a kiss on cupid bow lips. “Alright but only because you asked nicely.”

He let his fingers continue their path, idly noting that the cream had managed to soak through and made the skin ever so slightly damp. His attention was mostly focused on watching Sherlock’s face, though, as the younger Holmes had returned to following the movements of John’s fingers.

By the time he reached the waistband of the trousers, there was even less room to spare in them than usual.

_Not the way I had planned to go about finding out what he was and wasn’t comfortable with, I admit, but if it works, I’m certainly not going to argue._

He started to unbutton the trousers as though he was quite unaware of his boyfriend’s predicament. Not even when pulling the zipper down or sliding his hands around to the hips so he could start to push the fabric down and off did he give any clear indication he intended to do something about, or had even seen, the growing erection in front of him, even though his gaze was now directed downwards.

He let his hands glide down long legs, following the slipping fabric – only so that he was absolutely sure the trousers came off properly, of course.

When he was kneeling on the floor, he looked up again to find pale eyes with heavily dilated pupils and a mouth that was hanging slightly open. There was definite tension in the air but the slight undertone of anxiety hadn’t completely dissipated yet.

He considered making a small comment, to try and dissolve the remnants of nerves, but he realized that it might have the complete opposite effect. So, he held his tongue and instead leaned forward, which earned him an intake of breath from above.

It turned into a different noise when he bypassed the cock begging for attention and instead planted a kiss on the hipbone just peeking out above the waistband of the pants. As he began to slide the soft fabric downwards in the same slow fashion as the trousers, he planted several more soft kisses that followed the same slow, downwards trajectory as the pants.

By the time the pants had joined the trousers on the floor, John had had to shuffle forward slightly to keep in contact; Sherlock had taken a step backwards so he could reach the countertop to grip it.

That might have been as well since he gripped onto it tightly when John finally planted a kiss on the tip of his erection and especially when he licked a broad stripe all the way from the root to the very tip where he planted another loving kiss. While he did so, his fingers circled the base of the cock, his grip teasingly light.

“John…”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be such a…a _tease,”_ the detective grumbled, sounding frustrated. _“_ If you’re going to do it, just go ahead and _do it.”_

“Patience, Sherlock,” John said, his tone in no way giving away his own arousal. “I thought you’d learned that even slightly after all these weeks of baking.”

He slowly began to move the hand around the shaft up and down, continuing to keep his grip annoyingly loose and light.

“Besides,” he continued, “you’re not really in any position to talk about being a tease, are you? I seem to recall some other incidents, while baking, too, where what happened could hardly be called anything but deliberate teasing on your part.”

“It’s hardly my fault that you’re slow on the uptake on such things, which was surprising given your nickname,” Sherlock countered, “and I think you’ll find that those weren’t teasing as much as they were _hints…!”_

The last word was drawn out into a high keen; John had wrapped his good hand very firmly around the base of the cock while his lips had just about closed around the head.

The keen turned into a long moan when the lips started to apply suction and the hand moved slowly up and down, keeping the pressure up.

“Oh, god, John…that’s…oh, yes… _yes._ ”

A bony hand slid into blond hair, tangling its fingers. Interestingly, though the hips were making aborted attempts at bucking, the hand did not try to push John down further, which was appreciated. The doctor did not take well to such things at the best of times.

As he gradually took more and more into his mouth while keeping the movement of his hand going on what wasn’t in his mouth, he had to marvel a bit at his partner. Not only was the man much more sensitive than he had anticipated, he was also wonderfully vocal, letting out small, pleasured sighs and moans whenever John did something that he liked. Coupled with the hand in his hair tugging slightly at those points, too, it made the act so much easier than it could have been.

On top of that, the noises and small movements also served to drive on John’s own arousal. He had always loved partners like that, not so much because of the ego boost but the fact that they were willing to show that they genuinely enjoyed what he was doing; he was bringing them pleasure on his own terms and it turned him on.

He certainly hadn’t expected such an outcome from Sherlock. Not that he’d thought the man was a virgin or anything, despite what had been claimed, but from the shyness and hesitation in moving to this point, it wouldn’t seem obvious that he’d be like…like this.

On the other hand, though, Sherlock had always been one to throw himself wholeheartedly into whatever he was doing and to be attuned to his body, however much he chose to ignore it normally. It wasn’t too farfetched to assume that he would be able to immerse himself like this.

At one point, the hand in his hair did tug significantly harder. John was about to pull off to voice his disapproval of the treatment when the other hand came into vision, holding something.

He realized Sherlock had bent forward a bit to reach over and get a handful of the mostly-whipped cream and was now holding it out. He looked up into pale eyes practically swallowed by their pupils and saw the unasked question in them.

_Bugger me, I wouldn’t have thought he’d go for that on a first…well, not like I’m going to complain, is it?_

Despite that, he pulled off the dick in his mouth to ask, “You sure?”

He got a quick, decisive nod in reply and a short lick of lips.

“Please, John,” Sherlock said, his voice thick with arousal and emotion. “I know I won’t last but…I can’t…can’t get the mental image out of… _oh, please_.”

How could John possibly say no to that?

He was likely meant to scoop the whipped cream out of the proffered hand. Instead, he grabbed hold of the wrist and brought the hand into contact with the rigid flesh. He wanted Sherlock to feel that contrast between the warmth of his hand, the coolness of the cream and the pulsing heat of the erection.

It had the expected result; as soon as it made contact, the younger Holmes let out a shuddering, strangled gasp and bucked into his own hand, coating the length further.

“Oh, god…” The hips continued pushing forward with very little hint of a rhythm.

“That’s it, love,” John said softly, encouragingly. The sight of the cock getting covered in soft cream was pleasing enough on its own but to see Sherlock so close to orgasm, lost to sensation…well…it seemed like it wouldn’t be too long before John joined him.

Before that, though…Sherlock wasn’t the only one with alluring mental images that he was keen to try out.

As Sherlock seemed somewhat lost to what he was doing, John took the opportunity to quickly open his own jeans and take his cock in hand. With his other hand, he once again grabbed the bony wrist, this time to stop its movements.

The hand faltered but before the detective could look down or complain, the blond had leaned forward again and taken in the smothered penis, all the way to the root, sucking as he did so.

That proved too much; with a strangled, overwhelmed cry, which sounded suspiciously like ‘John’, Sherlock came, his semen shooting down John’s throat as he shook and convulsed through his orgasm, continuing to let out small gasps and moans.

The doctor was deliberately not pulling away, wanting to savour the moment while his hand worked on his own erection. He pulled off only when he knew he was just about to come so that he didn’t inadvertently hurt the other. As it was, he had to grip onto the man’s knee as his own orgasm crashed through him.

For what seemed like forever but probably wasn’t there was silence in the kitchen apart from their ragged breathing.

“John…” Sherlock eventually said, his voice incredibly soft and rather shaky.

“Yeah?” John’s own voice wasn’t the steadiest either, he had to admit.

“I don’t think we can use the chocolate. It’s completely burned.”

* * *

 

It wasn’t really burned but it had certainly been overheated to the point where it was only fit for the bin. The only consolation, apart from the obvious, was that Sherlock had tipped rather more whipped cream than initially thought down his front and they wouldn’t have enough for all the of the mousses.

John, trying not let on that he was a bit pleased it hadn’t only been his job that had gone wrong, did point out that there’d be plenty for at least two of the mousses and the dark chocolate was still perfectly fine to use.

Sherlock wouldn’t hear of it, however, which was hardly surprising. Whatever else he was, he was also quite capable of being a drama queen when he felt like it and so he declared that the whole bake was ruined.

“Oh, come off it,” John said with a snort as he leaned against the doorframe of Sherlock’s bedroom and watched the other getting back into some clothes. It was done with more force than was strictly necessary. “There’s no need to throw a tantrum over something like this. The chocolate sponge is fine and we can still try to make some blackberry mousse and dark chocolate mint mousse.”

“I am not ‘throwing a tantrum’.”

“Hissy fit, then? Call it what you like, there’s no reason for it. We’re still making those mousses today, whatever you say. I didn’t pay for that many groceries that we’re not going to use anyway because you’ve reverted to being a put-upon five-year-old.”

All he got in response was silence and a forceful pulling on of a trouser leg. Unfortunately for Sherlock, he miscalculated the angle slightly and, as he was standing up at the time, that unbalanced him enough to fall back onto the bed. He let out a tiny indignant squawk while John barked out a laugh, which earned him a glare.

“That’s what you get for being a drama queen,” John said quite calmly. His expression then softened. “Oh, give over. It’s tradition that we bake on Saturday now, do you want to stop that just because of a minor setback? You can hardly say you didn’t enjoy it.”

Sherlock continued to glare at him for a few moments longer. Then his own expression softened and he smiled gently, a light in his eyes.

“True.”

With that, he finished dressing, thankfully in something rather more sensible for baking, and they went back to the kitchen. Sherlock led the way, John’s hand clasped tightly in his.

* * *

 

 

In the end, what they ended up with was one large sponge cake with two layers of mousse, one dark chocolate with mint and one blackberry. They had argued about it, as Sherlock had still wanted to do individual mini mousse cakes, as per the showstopper brief, though the doctor suspected it was as much do to with simple ego as anything. Eventually, John’s argument that with the day they’d had so far, perhaps trying to fiddle with gelatine powder, chocolate tempering, delicate designs and acetate roll wasn’t the smartest of ideas won through.

To uphold the promise of a showstopper, however, Sherlock got to fiddle around with the tempered chocolate they hadn’t needed for the mousse. Once again, he proved an apt hand at piping and piped some rather wonderful, intricate designs to go around the sides and on the top.

As he watched his lover work, a wonderful warmth having taken up residence inside of him, John noticed something about the decorations.

He leaned closer. There could be no doubt about it.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” came the preoccupied answer.

“Could you stop a moment?”

The hands didn’t stop in their steady, measured movements. “I’m almost done here.”

“Sherlock. Now.”

“ _Fine_.”

When he turned, he was greeted with a John Watson that had the biggest, happiest smile on his face, as though he’d just been handed the greatest present possible.

“You daft sod, I love you, too,” John said before leaning up and kissing the other soundly. Sherlock kissed back just as enthusiastically.

In amongst the other designs, there were quite distinct hearts with similar curlicues as the rest. On the larger hearts, however, the curlicues were in fact the letters ‘S’ and ‘J’. They were not just written side by side but had been intertwined so the bottom curve of the ‘S’ also served as the bottom curve of the ‘J’, rendering them completely inseparable.

John would tease Sherlock about the sentimental nature of doing such a thing but not until later. He had other things to take of right then.

 

* * *

 

 

“This isn’t too atrocious.”

“You really do know how to sell it, don’t you?” There was a momentary pause as John took a bite himself. “What are you on about? This is good.”

“It’s oozing slightly and the chocolate is bitter.”

John leaned over to squeeze a knee and place a small kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s not and even if it was, I don’t care. it’s something we’ve made together, that’s the main thing for me now.” He smiled. “Besides, with all the trouble we had making this, I think we’ve done rather well.”

Sherlock reluctantly agreed the point and took another bite. John shook his head and ate his own slice. It really had turned out very good. He was going to save a large slice for Mrs. Hudson, as he’d promised her.

On the side of this plate was an unbroken chocolate heart decoration; he was going to have to find a way to save that, at the very least.

It was true that he didn’t care how the bake turned out. Whatever happened, he had gotten far more out of his impulse to initiate a bet than he ever expected or could have wished for.

“What?” Sherlock asked and the doctor only then realized that he had been staring.

“I think I’ve won the bet,” John said simply.

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied, the beginnings of a cheeky grin playing on his lips. “We still have two further shows and a final to go – and you did promise me another showstopper. In fact, I don’t believe this bake can qualify as such so you owe me two showstoppers yet.”

“Like hell I do.”

“What, you don’t think you could do it?”

“Of all the ways to goad – alright, alright, _fine._ Not like I thought I was going to get out of this before we’d reached the final, anyway. One condition, though.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yeah. You tell me which bake you want to make right after we watch the show _and_ you stick around to plan it and buy the ingredients.”

“That’s two conditions.”

“Oh, shut up and eat your ruddy cake, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently when it comes time to write the sex scene, it means I write a very long chapter indeed. I know I could have split it into two but I've felt bad that I've kept you all waiting so long for this as is, so...long chapter it is. :)  
> Writing the sex scene without the back-n-forth just didn't work with how I've written them here so I hope you can bear with me.  
> I really loved writing this. The break truly helped :D  
> I've got a small epilogue written that will be uploaded separately later :)


	8. Epilogue - Finals Week and what next?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's still a few shows left, including the final, and John's promise of two showstoppers still stand. What will Sherlock want to do for the final and might that suggest something about his plans for their future?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup this is indeed the epilogue. I know the chapter summary implies a lot but it's sadly not a long chapter. Apologies.  
> Thank you to everyone who has been kind enough to read this, whatever point you joined at, and thank you for all the kind feedback. It is so treasured :D

“Imbecilic, thoughtless, nosy tub of lard! Worthless, obtuse piece of flotsam!”

“Sherlock bleeding Holmes, will you stop for just one moment?!” John shouted to be heard over the man’s tantrum as well as the traffic around them. “Just **_stop_** _!”_

The anger as well as the strength of the shout must have filtered through to Sherlock somehow, despite the fact that the man was several paces in front. He stopped in his tracks and turned around to face John, who came stomping up to him, laden down with both their bags, looking distinctly annoyed.

“We’re not going to get home any faster by you storming off into the street like that,” the blond groused. “Just stay put for a moment and we’ll call a cab.”

The look of anger on the fine features only deepened. “Two weeks, John. We’ve been stuck in that rotten little county for over two weeks because of that bloated, smug vulture and now we’re finally back in London, he can’t even provide a mode of transport that will ensure we’ll make it in time.”

To anyone else that might have sounded either very important or like complete gobbledegook but John didn’t need to be told what was meant. He had a calendar, after all.

“Look, it’s only just gone past two o’clock. The show doesn’t start until this evening, there is plenty of time, even with traffic.”

Sherlock didn’t look remotely mollified or even convinced. “I _told_ him we had more important things to do than his _stupid_ case.”

“Yeah, you did. But you also say that when all you’ve got to do is turn to make sure you don’t get bedsores. You can hardly blame him for not listening to you on this occasion. Boy who cried wolf and all that. Now come on, use your magic wave.”

“Magic wave?” the brunet echoed, face scrunching up.

“What else would you call your ability to instantly get a cab whenever you throw up an arm to hail one?”

“You do realize that that is completely and utterly impossible – “

“Just shut up and get us a cab, would you?”

 

* * *

 

They arrived back home about twenty minutes before the final show was scheduled to start. Sherlock was in something of a jittery mood by then, though he would never admit to it, and so John let him run up the stairs while he paid for the fare and went into Speedy’s to get some sandwiches. It had been a long trip back without any food.

He did make sure the lanky, lazy git was at least carrying their bags up the stairs, though.

Once he returned from his culinary expedition, laden with far more than he had asked for and definitely more than he had paid for, he came into the living room to find the coffee table laden with just about everything edible they had left in the cupboards. What was more, the sofa was covered in all the spare cushions from around the living room. Sherlock himself was lounging on top of a good deal of them, tucked under a woollen blanket that John had completely forgotten they owned.

The sweetest thing of all of them, though, was the way Sherlock lay curled up against the back of the sofa; it was as though he was moulding himself around an invisible person, making space for them on sofa. It was hardly difficult to work out who was supposed to fill that mould.

“It’s not started yet, has it?” John asked, though he knew it hadn’t. There was still five minutes to go.

“It will soon,” came the reply, “so hurry up.”

The consulting detective was looking towards the telly instead of over at John, even though he had yet to turn it on and he looked for all the world like he’d been lying there for ages, just quietly thinking. He had to have been very fast indeed to put all that out in the short time

“I…got some sandwiches. I know they’re not your favourites, but – “

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock interrupted, in a classically dismissive tone. “Fine. I’m sure they’re at least edible. Now get over here.”

“Yes, love,” John said as he put the bags down on a free space on the table. He watched with delight as colour started to faintly bloom on high cheekbones at the pet name.

Never in his life would he have guessed that names of endearment like that would affect _Sherlock Holmes_ of all people so much every time John used it. It was a wonderful power to have but he had to be careful he didn’t abuse it.

So, he merely smiled softly and wiggled his way onto the sofa, in the space so deliberately left for him. As soon as he had settled in beneath the blanket, an arm settled around him very firmly and deliberately. Soft lips pressed against the back of his head.

_Yeah, this is just about the best outcome of a bet that I’ve ever had._

He knew that the fact that they’d missed two weeks’ worth not just of shows but of baking opportunities, stuck as they had been in a small rented cottage with what could generous be described as a cosy kitchen and no working television, was going to come back to him.

Come hell or high water, as soon as Sherlock found out what had been baked as the showstopper in the previous two shows, they were going to make those things. John just hoped that nothing from the final would be too appealing. They had been getting better at baking, no doubt about that, but that didn’t mean he felt up to tackling the most difficult challenges just yet.

_Hell, I’ll just have to play it by ear. As always, really._

 

* * *

“Who are we rooting for to win, then?” John asked around a yawn.

The remaining three bakers had just been set their last ever signature bake, a meringue crown and told what they intended to make. He had to admit, they all sounded delicious.

“Does it matter? They’re all idiots and besides, I already know which one you’re rooting for.” The last part was accompanied by a disdainful sniff as Candice’s efforts to make a crown were shown.

It earned him a light jab with an elbow. “How many times? She’s not my type, you idiot, and even if she was, do you really think I’d root for her just for that?”

“People have been known – “

“I am not people, though, am I? And don’t act so high and mighty, I’ve seen you keeping your fingers crossed when we got to the elimination part and this close, I could hear your sigh of relief when you saw who was left very clearly. So, out with it.”

The answer, when it came, was rather quiet. “Jane…”

“Yeah? Alright, then, Jane it is.”

 

* * *

 

There was another disdainful sniff when Candice got a handshake for her meringue crown and another, harder jab from John in response. That turned into a very small, pleased hum when Jane outdid her by getting a double handshake.

John felt somewhat bad for the poor Andrew, though.

 

* * *

 

Once the showstopper was announced, John felt a small sense of dread settle in the pit of his stomach. There was absolutely no question that they would be making that showstopper. Yeah, the meringue crown was probably more difficult than a royal picnic like that when it wasn’t timed but it still seemed a big undertaking, especially when you took Sherlock’s flair for the dramatic into account.

“Relax,” Sherlock said behind him, a note of amusement in his voice.

“I am relaxed. If I was any more relaxed, I’d be drooling on your shirt sleeve.”

“We’ve been there before and it washed out fine. But you’re not relaxed and you can be because we’re not going to make that showstopper.”

John didn’t bother trying to deny his worry on that scare. “Oh?” he said.

“No.”

 _Like that is any answer at all. “_ How come?”

“To be honest, I’m a little disappointed.”

“You would be and all. Why haven’t they lived up to your precious standards, then?”

There was silence behind him. When it wasn’t broken after another five minutes, John turned his head to look at the other. He couldn’t turn his body since he was held down rather effectively by a long arm and leg.

“Sherlock?”

“That wasn’t what they’ve made for the showstopper the other years.” The words were spoken so quietly that if John hadn’t been as close as he was, he wasn’t sure he would have heard them.

“Other years?” John echoed. “As far as I know, they’ve had different showstoppers for the finals each year. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Test them in something different.”

“But they’ve had multi-tiered cakes before on more than one final showstopper.”

It took a moment longer for the penny to finally drop but when it did, it dropped hard. “Sherlock…are you saying what I think you’re saying? You’re not just taking the piss this time?”

“I’ve never ‘taken the piss’, as you so eloquently put it, on anything regarding the baking or anything connected with it. That you chose to be dense is hardly my fault.”

“It is when you send enough mixed signals to confuse a traffic warden.” John finally managed to turn himself around to face his lover. How he managed it on the sofa without falling off it, he had no idea.

He searched Sherlock’s face, looking for any sign that he was indeed taking the mickey or wasn’t aware of just what he was implying, both of which was viable options with the younger Holmes.

"Are you really saying that you want us to bake a, a wedding cake?” he asked when he found none.

Sherlock smiled, hesitantly hopeful yet very nervous, too, as faint colour donned his cheeks again. “Not _a_ wedding cake. _Our_ wedding cake. Not right now, obviously, and we need to find somewhere to hold it that Mycroft won’t come near to but if we ask Mrs. Hudson I’m sure – “

Sherlock?” John interrupted the nervous rambling. Pale eyes, suddenly uncertain, looked at him.

When they parted from their short, sweet kiss, the doctor was grinning and shaking his head. "Only you would ask in that manner. Well, technically, you didn’t even ask and we haven’t exactly been together long. I’m not saying no,” he hastened to add, “quite the opposite but let’s take it nice and slow.”

Sherlock, however, huffed at that. “Just because it’s not been official doesn’t mean it hasn’t been real.”

John considered that. In a way, they had been a couple for a long time, hadn’t they? “Point,” he conceded. “Still want to do it properly, though, so you’ll have to wait.”

“ _Fine_.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, it was Candice who won, which John thought was only fair. She had delivered all the way through the final and done so better than the other two. It would have been wrong for her not to win.

Sherlock, of course, didn’t agree but he kept his mouth shut.

“Well, that’s it, then, I suppose,” John said, rising to grab the remote and turn the telly off.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s the end of the show. No more Bake Off.”

“There’s still programmes coming up at Christmas.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Besides, don’t think you’re getting out of baking just because there’s no more programmes.”

“Wouldn’t do anything as preposterous as assuming things when I’m with you,” John shot back. “I’m never letting you apply for the show, though.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I think we’re doing eminently better than the contestants, anyway. No, a real challenge would be somewhere else.”

“Oh?”

The younger Holmes grinned and slipped his arms around the doctor. “Did you know that BBC Two also runs a program called ‘The Great British Sewing Bee’?”

“Oh, gods.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're all done. This has just been fun from start to finish, thank you all for indulging me.  
> I couldn't help adding the bit about the Sewing Bee, just because I can see those two trying their hands at that. Possibly with an excuse to making their own wedding clothes or the like.

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing these guys :) Anyone else craving something sweet and delicious? No? Just me, then.  
> This also marks my 20th published Sherlock fic. :)
> 
> Feedback is very much loved and treasured :3


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